


Atropa Belladonna

by Embleer_Frith0323



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types
Genre: Altered Character History, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Deceit, Downward Spiral, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Inspired by Novel, Language, Murder, Not Canon Compliant, Obsession, POV Alternating, POV First Person, POV Second Person, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, References to Suicide, Reimaginings, creepers, police work, stalkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:04:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 192,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Embleer_Frith0323/pseuds/Embleer_Frith0323
Summary: "Atropa Belladonna: A plant that can cure, seduce, or kill."A routine traffic stop sets off a domino effect that will forever shatter Officer!Grayson's entire world--transforming a once temperate existence into a lurid nightmare of obsession, deceit, violence, and finally murder.





	1. Bad Moon Rising

**Author's Note:**

> What's poppin', y'all!
> 
> OMG I DID THE THING...
> 
> This story has kind of been rattling around in my brain for quite some time (years, in fact), but I never pursued it because of its potentially squicky and offensive content. Having read a spate of suspense novels, however (and honestly, my preferred genre in all things tends to be suspense... why, tho), I finally decided to give my own effort at a good suspense thriller a go.
> 
> The format is partly inspired by Caroline Kepnes' _You,_ given I reeeaaally appreciated the first and second person POV cross she accomplished with the narrative. Very original, almost like a letter without being a letter.  <3 It's a great read (although I'll admit I wasn't quite as big a fan of its sequel... Eeek!)
> 
> I confess with profound shame that I have something of a soft spot for the suspense subgenre of of the Unhinged Woman (again, why, tho), anything from _Fatal Attraction_ to _The Hand That Rocks the Cradle,_ and I've rather wanted to try my hand at it (seems an odd writing goal for an avid feminist?? WHY, THO!) To Catalina fans, hopefully you'll forgive me for choosing her to fit the bill. *bows* So... here goes nothing!!
> 
> Lots of altered character history, canon divergence, and shifts in the source material lie ahead, as well as a LOT of ugly, disturbing content. TRIGGER WARNINGS ABOUND ALL OVER THE PLACE! I'll always be sure to provide more specific content warnings in notes at the beginnings of sketchier chapters, however, so everyone is warned appropriately. <3
> 
> Either way, enjoy! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3
> 
> (Spanish to English translations available in the end note.) :D

**CHAPTER 1**

You come to me on a Wednesday evening, just at a quarter to five. The dwindling day around my car is blustery and cold, something right out of _Winnie the Pooh,_ all singing winds and swirling leaves and cinereal downpour. I stare incredulously at the rearview mirror, the lights from your cruiser flashing garish red and blue in its uncaring reflection. I slam the steering wheel. 

_“Hijo de puta,”_ I mutter. 

What miserable turn of luck has brought you to me, you jangler of keys and harbinger of doom? I pout, thinking I wasn’t even all _that_ far over the speed limit as I drove along the Spine barely moments before. 

Careless, Blockbuster would say, his big, fat head swelling to twice its normal gigantic size, his square face going blotchy scarlet. With an attempted backhand swat, no doubt. Colossal _cabrón._

I watch your shape approach the driver’s side, moving in a graceful, authoritative gait even through the gales off the water. I clench my teeth. A self-assured _cerdo asqueroso,_ a puffed up dirty pig of a cop — oh, skippity-dee-dee. Still. I know I can handle you, however cocksure you might be in your position of extraordinary power, since by the fluidity of your movement, I’m assuming you’re young. More pliant than your veteran brothers in blue, so intoxicated on power that authority-mongering has become part of their DNA. If you’re as young as I suspect, that part of the job can’t have touched you yet — meaning you’re still greener than seasickness. A half-smile teases my lips. Easy. 

You tap lightly on my window, _shave-and-a-haircut,_ non-threatening and friendly. Your face is obscured by the pattern of raindrops stippling the surface of the window, and as I depress the button to lower the pane, I put my game face on. 

My game face being, I start to cry like the ghost of _La Llorona._

Seriously. There’s not a cop in Blüdhaven, Gotham, Metropolis, or even East Jesus Nowhere that’s immune to a distraught woman — not in my experience, anyway, although I’m sure exceptions exist. You’re sure not to be that exception, however, you with your blithe swagger and relaxed posture. Navigating you will be as easy as traipsing around the outside of a donut. 

As the window comes down, I have to _remember_ to keep up my game face when our eyes meet. I’m fairly sure I’ve never seen so pure a shade of blue outside of a box of colored pencils before. 

_Oh, who’s the cutie…_ I think to myself, at once twitterpated beyond belief. I look at the tag on the blue lapel of your uniform coat. _Cpl. R. Grayson._ R… Ronald? No, you don’t look like a Ronald. A Robert, perhaps, Robin, Raymond. Certainly not a Roger. 

And look at you, whatever your name that begins with R is, so young, surely not even twenty-five, and a _corporal_ — so fancy with your two chevrons on that sharp blue jacket only just beginning to wilt in the lousy Blüdhaven weather. 

“Hi, ma’am,” you say in a polite, amiable tenor. Your voice is a soft, mellow hum as you rattle off the spiel you’ve surely performed more times than either of us can count, the phrases issued with gently upward lilts at the ends, like questions. “I’m Corporal Richard Grayson, BPD? I stopped you this evening for a speed limit violation — any idea how fast you were going back there?” 

Ah. Richard. 

“Well, if I knew,” I snark through the false tears, “I don’t think you’d be pulling me over right now, Corporal Richard Grayson.” I make a big show of wiping my eyes. 

You let go an easy chuckle. Apparently, you’ve seen a lot of women weep hitherto, since my performance doesn’t seem to leave you even the remotest bit nonplussed. Well, if I get ticketed tonight by you, the best-looking cop (and man) I’ve seen in all my twenty-seven years on this hunk of rock in this quadrant of the universe, I will one, eat my own hat, and two, consider a well-timed blow job to be my only recourse in avoiding a fine that I can’t comfortably cough up the money to pay just now. Blockbuster pays dick. 

“Fair enough,” you say. “Well, the speed limit here’s fifty-five, and I clocked you first at eighty-one, then eighty-two, then eighty-three, then eighty-four… and then decided to stop for your sake.” 

“Hmm — my white knight,” I crack dryly. 

“I do what I can. Protect and serve and all that. Now, my lady, could I acquire your license, registration, and proof of insurance, please?” 

Why, Corporal Grayson — doth my ears deceive me? Is that a bit of a _flirtation_ I hear in your tone? I sniffle dramatically as I produce the requested documentation and hand it to you. 

“Thank you much,” you say cheerfully, glancing at the license card. “Sit tight, Miss Flores.” 

_Oh, I’ll sit tight,_ I think, my lip curling into a satisfied smile, _right atop your nightstick…_

And sit I do, gazing at the outline of your form in the rearview mirror, visible through the windshield of your cruiser. I wish I could see you more clearly — you’re obfuscated by the rain and the flashing lights blinking off the sheets of precipitation. I could look at your face every day for the rest of my life and never tire of it, I can already tell you with complete confidence and honesty. I relax in my seat with a little low volume Creedence Clearwater Revival to keep me company until you return. I suppose that a ticket might not be such a problem, after all. I can contest it — and see you again, can’t I? 

When you finally return to my window, I give you a smile, allowing one tear to trail down my cheek. Just to remain consistent in my woebegone, beautiful woman act. 

I listen as you speak, telling me kindly that you’re going to give me a warning this evening, and to remember that eighty miles per hour is when people start to _really_ get hurt if they happen to wreck. You share a gentle anecdote after stating that you’re pleased to see I’m at least wearing my seatbelt — in your years of service, you explain, you’ve never unbuckled someone from an accident. 

I lean against the seat, gazing at you, hanging on your words, studying your appearance. Your hair, jet black and gleaming even in the diffuse light of the gusty evening, begs me to run my fingers through its satiny length (longer than the BPD would like, I’m sure.) Should I even begin to discuss the possibilities of tracing your chiseled jaw or adorable nose with my fingertips, or best of all, of losing myself in those devastating eyes? Women spend thousands of dollars ( _qué demonios_ , sometimes more) on makeup and contact lenses to achieve the eyes you just naturally have — the color of the sky over the ocean in autumn, their hue and almond shape enhanced by the heavy wings of sooty, girly eyelashes. Such a surprising contrast against your otherwise traditionally masculine features. 

I wonder what your chest looks like under your coat, how the length of your abdomen would illuminate in candlelight, what you’re offering behind the zipper of your tidy uniform trousers. I resist the urge to cluck. I’m sure you’ve broken plenty of hearts with your gorgeous eyes, lustrous hair and easy grin, the potential of your assets aside. What would you do with _my_ heart, if I were to hand it to you now? 

“The things cops see versus the things we FBI agents see,” I tell you, opting to let you in on a little personal background that wouldn’t have come up when you ran my license. 

And when I see the straight, even line of white teeth as you smile, I think I might just hand my heart to you here and now, after all. 

“Ah, you a Fed?” you ask. 

“Was,” I correct you. 

“Uh-oh,” you tell me, and I warm through, seeing the friendly, engaging side of you, the one not veiled under the professional blue curtain. “You know what we cops say about the FBI, right?” 

“Fabulous But Incompetent?” I supply. 

You laugh, and the sound is the tenor blurble of angels — infectious, heartwarming, genuine. Honestly, _guapo,_ where have you been all my life? 

“Hey, you said it, not me,” you claim, flashing your palms as you raise conciliatory hands. 

“Well. Some people also claim that FBI is an acronym for Female… or I guess in this case,” I flick my eyes appreciatively over your form, so quickly you might not even notice if you aren’t as savvy as I suspect, but I _think_ you’re savvy, “ _Fabulous_ Body Investigator?” 

You grin even wider, and if you asked me, I’d open the door and thoroughly investigate your fabulous body right now (in the name of professional interest, of course.) 

“Well, my lady, I can promise you — _never_ on my watch,” you say. 

My own smile spreads into a grin in return. “Then you’re not only a sweetheart, but a Boy Scout, _cariño.”_

Your posture changes, relaxing even more, and you incline your head in a gesture that might turn me into a puddle to match those on the sidewalk. 

_“Muchas gracias,”_ you say, your accent nearly perfect. _“Usted es muy amable, también.”_

I smile, melting. You just told me I am very kind. I really don’t get that often. I would have preferred you approach me informally, but we _have_ only just met, I suppose. Again. Boy Scout. 

_“Gracias,”_ I respond. _“Pero es la verdad.”_

You shake your head. _“No se de eso. Pero gracias de todas maneras.”_

You hand me my documents back. No hand contact. Boo. 

“Say,” you mention, “are you related to Mat Flores?” 

Ah. You know my brother, the lofty District Attorney. The Flores Golden Boy. 

“The DA? _Sí. Es mi hermano.”_

You smile. God, I love how your eyes crinkle at the corners when you smile. “Good thing I let you go, then. Tell him Dickie said hey.” 

“I will.” I realize, perhaps belatedly, that you are _Dick_ Grayson — the Flying Grayson of Haly’s Circus, and the poster boy for carney kids across the country. _Claro que sí,_ of course. There _had_ been something familiar about your face, I think, and opt to blame my stunted thinking on your preternatural charm, surely honed through your years as a showman. 

You straighten, and gesture at the stretch of highway that expands beyond us. “You be careful, okay? This weather sucks for speeding.” 

“This _city_ sucks for speeding. But at least I got a white knight who pulled me over for it this time.” 

Again, that natural smile. You wink and tap the window ledge twice. 

“Have a nice night,” you say, and with that, you’re back to your cruiser. I pointedly signal, shift gears, and pull back out onto the Spine, minding my speed, periodically glancing in my rearview mirror at your headlights as you reenter the flow of traffic a ways behind me now. 

But I don’t head to the Municipal Trainyards to meet with my boss of sorts, however angry with me Blockbuster might be for standing him up — it doesn’t pay to get pulled over when you’re enroute to meet with a crime lord so the two of you can plan the murder of the Blüdhaven Chief of Police, now, does it? What a golden opportunity I now have. Instead, I make a roundabout path for Mateo’s office, where he’s sure to still be at this hour. I want to learn more about you, my white knight in your blue cruiser. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Hijo de puta: Son of a bitch  
> -Cabron: Bastard  
> -Cerdo asqueroso: Dirty pig, disgusting pig  
> -La Llorona: Legend of the ghost of a grieving mother wailing over her lost children  
> -Que demonios: What the hell  
> -Guapo: Good-looking, handsome  
> -Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> *Exchange goes as follows:  
> "Thank you so much. You're very sweet, too."  
> "Thanks. But it's the truth."  
> "I don't know about that. But thanks, anyway."  
> -Si. Es mi hermano: Yeah. He's my brother.  
> -Claro que si: Of course.


	2. Caballero Blanco

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Morning! <3
> 
> YES, lots of changes, lol. XD Kind of pulling from the source material and reconstructing it a bit?? To work within the story?? *bows* Forgive me. <3 Hopefully they translate well and work okay.
> 
> Hope y'all enjoy!
> 
> Translations in the end note. :D
> 
> Much love!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 2**

“Dickie… Dickie. _Dickie._ Hey — Dickie.” 

A profound smack to the table jars me back to reality. I blink, shedding the cobwebs of my clinging thoughts. 

“Sorry, Gannon, what were you saying?” 

My partner inclines his head in a familiar gesture, a smile touching his lips, folding the skin at one corner into a well-known dimple. 

“Hey, Dickie, you’re so fine, you’re so fine you blow my mind, hey, Dickie!” He claps three times. “Hey, Dickie!” 

His abrupt and gleeful burst into song attracts the attention of every other patron in the cafe and incites a couple of college kids to join in the clapping and one more chorus of “Hey, Mickey.” (Or in this case, “Hey, Dickie.” Save me!) Gannon grins triumphantly and sits back in his seat, pleased at having effectively won back my attention as the Improv Everywhere session fades back into the usual cafe chatter. 

“You know, Gannon,” I say, laughing, “just because you’re gay doesn’t mean you have to serenade everybody in Brenda’s Cafe along with the entire population of the Upper West Side.” 

“Yeah, and just because you’re hung like a moose doesn’t mean you gotta do porn,” he returns. He pauses, and draws up. “Oh, wait. I was thinking of your brother.” 

“My brother does _not_ do porn,” I say, laughing harder now. “Nor has he ever done porn, and nor will he ever do porn. I don’t think you could pay him _enough_ to do porn.” 

Gannon sits with his head on his folded hand, dreamily looking off into space. 

“Well, that’s fine,” he says. “That’s a ten I plan to net someday, either way.” 

I snort. “I’d ship it. Want me to talk to him for you? Nothing embarrassing, I promise.” 

“Don’t you dare,” Gannon says. 

I fight the urge to laugh myself sick at how _genuine_ he sounds. 

“Oh, come on, Gan, I’d just tell him you doodle Mrs. Gannon Todd all over your notepads and want to have all his babies,” I tell him. 

He gives me a wholly serious look. “Is it embarrassing if it’s the truth?” 

I burst out laughing. 

“Still, don’t you dare,” Gannon chuckles as my giggles decelerate. “But I love you for offering.” 

I give him an affected, sappy smile. “Oh, you said it first. I love you, too, my own gorgeous copy of Finnick Odair.” He makes a kissy motion at me. I fan my face, and settle in the booth. “Anyway. What were you saying before your impromptu Broadway audition?” 

“Well, I was dwelling outwardly on the gang members from Blüdhaven that washed up in the Gotham estuary last month, but we _are_ on lunch. We don’t have to talk shop right now. I mean, those dead bodies are enough to take your appetite straight to the grave with them, anyway.” 

“That’s the truth, not to mention we’re in public,” I concur, shaking my head. “Hell of a case to work just before the detective’s exam.” 

Gannon snorts. “Yeah, well, with Redhorn behind the wheel, we’ll never earn our shields. We could find the perps by Christmas, tie them up all pretty with little bows on the ends —” 

“Six-inch ribbon curls, honey?” 

“ _Six! Inches!”_

I crack up. Every year since Gannon and I started working together, we’ve made it a point to watch _Elf_ on Christmas Eve at the station, since, despised as we are by the Blüdhaven Commissioner/Chief of Police/Our Boss by Unfortunate Happenstance, we always wind up working on the holiday. It’s a not-so-subtle act of passive aggressive retaliation on our part, since the ancient, fascist, totally crooked Scrooge hates the holidays and in particular that film (stop traffic — and not because it’s our job.) 

Frankly, the sooner the colossal douche is cycled out of the BPD and his next-in-line, Amy Rohrbach, who is an _infinitely_ worthier candidate for the position, can be initiated into his place as Chief, the better. Maybe I’ll actually get to see Barbara, Bruce, Alfred and Jason for Christmas for the first time since starting work as an officer with the Blüdhaven Police Department four years ago. The Young Justice New Years’ party would be a nice thing to frequent again, too, even if I’ve retired from the team (for keeps this time, so I can focus on my mounting responsibilities in Blüdhaven, although I’m still glad to lend a hand to the League and team when I can.) I can’t even _remember_ the last time I hung out with my old friends, I realize with a pang, and miss them keenly, wondering what they’re all up to right now. 

Still. Thankfully, there’s Gannon. 

“Anyway,” my partner continues, “we could dump the masterminds behind the whole seedy mess on his desk in a neat little gift-wrapped package, all the evidence rock-hard and indisputable, all the paperwork filed and finished, pass all the exams and tests with flying colors, find the cure for cancer while we’re at it, and we’d _still_ never get our shields.” He sighs. “He hates our guts, Dick.” 

I shrug. “Well, boo-hoo. Honestly, the feeling’s mutual. And… you know, I don’t really hate a lot of people? So that’s saying something.” 

“Yep. The only types of people _you_ hate are the ones who would, like…” 

“Murder my family in front of a crowd?” I offer, stifling the stab of pain the words still cause me, fifteen years later. 

“Yes. That. And Redhorn just hates _us_ because we see right through his corrupt, potentially murderous, money-grubbing ass.” 

I nod in agreement. “Pretty much. I’m starting to think Amy fought for us to be assigned to assist investigators in this case because of that, though — like she might be hoping we’ll tie Redhorn to the murders and somehow find and expose his rumored connections to the mob here in Blüdhaven in the process. And unlike the other 98% of the BPD, we’re not in the guy’s pocket — meaning we actually stand a chance at doing that.” 

“Now, now, Corporal Grayson, don’t go getting too big for your britches,” says Gannon, and I grin. “Besides, Big Brother might be listening in.” 

“Oh, screw Redhorn if he _is_ listening in,” I say flippantly, waving a hand. “Guy’s like a spurned lover, all hot air and flying heels. I’m just talking, something I happen to do quite a lot — I can still talk, can’t I?” 

“Your problem is you tend to talk too much,” Gannon says. 

I make a conceding face with a slow nod. “Well, can’t argue that.” 

Gannon wags his head emphatically. 

“You know, speaking of talking…” he says. “You said you were going to be doing some of that at home. How’s your girl doing?” 

I don’t miss the swiftly sobered, sensitive tone in my partner’s voice. Gannon generally comes off as easygoing and lighthearted on first meetings, his demeanor somewhat evoking the good-natured frivolity of an even-tempered frat boy, but the reality is that he’s unfailingly thoughtful, discerning, and resolute under the shroud of that first impression. He’s a good cop, cunning and sharp as a tack — and an even better soul, considerate and kind. I’m blessed to work with him, and honestly, just to know him. 

I sigh. 

“She’s… doing okay, I guess,” I answer, thinking that for all I talk to Barbara several times a day and see her at least once a week and actively probe her on the subject, I have no _real_ idea as to how she’s actually doing. I feel sometimes like I get more news about her from Jim than from her own mouth. She’s always happy to discuss her team, the Birds of Prey, but anything _Babs_ related, and she goes stony and vague. By now, I know darn well better than to push her. “She’s been a battle axe through the whole thing, but… it’s a hard time, Gannon.” 

I smile and thank the waitress when she drops our orders off and refills our waters. Gannon unloads an impressive squirt of ketchup all over his fries, and eyes me. 

“Well, on that subject, I’m not real sure I want to know the answer, partner, but are you considering moving back to Gotham to be with her until she’s back on her… well, got her ducks in a row?” he asks. “And are you going to stay? Make this less of a hard time?” 

I don’t miss his deliberate evasion of the phrase “on her feet” in relation to my paraplegic fiancée. I half-smile a little, thinking that Gannon is always sensitive to those who need it. Again. A good soul. 

“I did consider it, and pretty seriously,” I reply, “but… not only is the BPD severely understaffed and still a quagmire of corruption, we’ve got those twenty-one tombed up Blüdhaven gang members that need looked into on top of it — and I can’t just leave you guys holding the bag full of those twenty-one dismembered gang members’ body parts. And… Babs has also told me — repeatedly — _not_ to drop everything for her sake. Or else.” I pause. “And when formidable Barbara Gordon gives you a direct order like that… you heed it, especially when she chases it with ‘or else.’” I give him a wan smile as he chortles. “Looks like you’re stuck with me for now, partner.” 

He smiles. “Well, all respect to Babs, because we both know I cherish that lady Viking with all my heart and soul, but… I’m glad. I’d hate to lose you, Dickie. I mean, with my luck, I’d get saddled with Fregley when you’re gone.” I laugh as he considers a moment. “Maybe Babs can move here, you know, once she adjusts enough to feel comfortable leaving her comfort zone and motherland of Gotham.” 

I experience the same discordant mix of feelings, the pangs of pride, warmth, admiration, and love all mixing with guilt, self-condemnation, and responsibility. It’s a conflicting emotional cocktail that _always_ wells inside me when I think about Babs, since some months ago. I also feel the disquieting undercurrent of uncertainty that’s cropped up in recent weeks where she’s concerned, although I stuff _that_ as far down as I possibly can. 

“Sure,” I say. “And maybe _you_ can pitch that idea to her.” 

“I don’t know, I kind of like my head where it is,” Gannon gaffes, then sobers. “You know, it’s only been a few months since her… you know, her _injury,_ Dick. I don’t think there’s any rush on major decisions here — not on when to set the date, not on when or where or which of you’s going to move, none of it. The fact is, you guys are probably the best couple on earth and you’ll be able to figure everything out and start integrating the changes eventually. Don’t rush it.” 

I smile. “This is why Babs likes you so much. And why I do, too, on that note, along with your devilish good looks and boyish charm.” I warm through when he chuckles. “Thanks, Gan.” 

“Any time, partner. And it’s why _everyone_ likes me so much,” he says, smiling back. 

“Except Redhorn,” I point out. 

“Whatever, he doesn’t like you, either. Hurry up and eat, Flying Grayson — the clock’s ticking and we’ve got to get back to work.” 

I make the whip-cracking sound and motion, and obligingly start eating, ready to focus on work rather than my personal life, which is hanging even more by a thread than my professional one. 

xxxxx 

“So what’s with this Blockbuster character?” asks Gannon, pointing to a sticky note tacked to my info map on my desk. 

“That’s what detectives are working on and I’m trying to figure out,” I say. (Yes, I’ll state the obvious, I know very well who Blockbuster is, one Roland Desmond and formerly a low level member of Intergang and affiliate of both the Injustice League and the Light. However, he’s at least new to Blüdhaven — new enough as to be unknown to the greater public, and I can’t exactly default to my vigilante alter-ego as my sudden source of trailless, undocumented information on the guy. Not without potentially tipping off some of the more astute, backstabbing listeners in my own department to my, y’know, _night job._ And for all I buddy around with a good percentage of my coworkers, there are plenty in the BPD that would love to discredit and hamstring me at the first opportunity. Man, working here has taken some adjustment — even going in fully intending to clear out the corruption in the notoriously crooked Blüdhaven Police Department, the actuality of it was a bit of a culture shock.) “Every connection I’ve made to the dead guys from the estuary comes back to this name — Blockbuster. CIs have also mentioned hearing about something called the Blockbuster Gang, which we can comfortably assume are this dude’s goons, and honestly… I wouldn’t be too shocked if they’re the perps we’re looking to tie up in neat little Christmas bows for Redhorn in a few weeks. It’s probably something to start really looking into next time we hit the streets, but I’m stuck on radar duty in half an hour and I’ve still got to drop off a report at the DA’s office before I head out.” 

I leave out the fact that I’ve informally traced Blockbuster and the Blockbuster Gang to several of my brothers in blue while clandestinely working the streets after hours as Nightwing — critical info to this case, but too explosive to expose just yet, especially under such sketchy circumstances and without airtight connections. While I wish I could at least _tell_ Gannon about these findings as we look over my info map on my desk at the station, it’s just not a fish I can comfortably or effectively fry right now. My partner doesn’t know about my tendency to put on the mask and pursue vigilante justice most nights after we wrap up duty. There _is_ always the option of approaching Gannon sometime after hours as Nightwing and tipping him off, though, I suppose, and resolve to orchestrate that as soon as strategically possible. 

And speaking of that, once I’m done here, there’s more work to come after — I got a lead or two on not only Blockbuster’s new affiliates, but the same murders the BPD is investigating while on Nightwing duty the other night with Artemis along to help (and as always, she proved invaluable — saving my can more times than I could count in the especially thorny street fights we wound up getting into, and thinking up whole lists of venues to pursue with her impressive, experiential brain that might never have occurred to me otherwise. That her father runs in the same circles as Blockbuster gave us an enormous leg up in making people talk — mention Sportsmaster, and generally, the gums start flapping. The other night was no exception.) Time to follow up on the leads we got, and see which, if any, I can use legally as Corporal Grayson. I’d ask my favorite partner in adult vigilantism — and top tier non-Babs gal pal in the whole wide world — along for the ride again, but Artemis is on an off-world mission for the next few days (and poor Wally’s been having an extended meltdown over how much time she’s spent in her Tigress uniform, anyway.) I’m on my own once I clock out. 

I sigh. Speaking of friends I miss. I figure when she gets back I’ll have to take her, Wally, and their twins, now toddlers and incidentally my godchildren, out to dinner or something. It would be nice to include Fairy Godmother Zatanna, too, kind of a way to show my gratitude to all of them, my little friend-fam, for their steady friendship over the years I’ve been up to my eyeballs in adulting here in The Blüd. Not to mention see them _period_ for the first time in eons. Another to-do that I’ll have to add to the list. 

I’m going to need ten shots of espresso, I think, passing a hand over my face, along with a couple of Red Bulls and maybe an adrenaline shot (I _do_ carry a syringe full of the stuff in case of emergencies — does somnambulism in the middle of the afternoon constitute one?) 

I sigh, uncustomarily torn about heading out on the rooftops later. It’s an odd feeling, the newfound twinge of hesitation rather than elation I feel when I think about donning the black and blue, and one that’s increasingly more common in coming these days. For the first time in my life, I no longer feel that I’m harboring an exciting secret, something delightful and thrilling if it were to be discovered. Instead, I feel like I’m betraying Gannon, lying to him, violating his trust as I keep what I now know to be a _dangerous_ secret from a partner that I love and respect. I feel like I’m disrespecting the badge I put on every day and abusing the extraordinary power that comes with it. 

It would be very fair to say that I grew up long before I ever physically left childhood. But the older I get and the more I change, the more everything around me changes, as well — and the more I find I’m not sure I like a lot of those changes. 

Inwardly, I shake my head. Two more waves from being all washed-up at the age of twenty-four, I think, and silently tsk. What to do… 

“Better skedaddle,” Gannon says in response to my earlier statement. “Don’t want to keep the DA waiting. But hey, maybe on radar duty you’ll end up having to undergo a high-speed pursuit — that’ll get your fusty old blood running again.” 

I snort. “You do know I’m still an active aerialist. But some high-speed pursuits might do _you_ some good before you rust out.” 

“Fair point. Can I high-speed pursue your brother?” 

“No.” 

“Worth a shot,” says Gannon, and I laugh. “Take it easy, Dickie. See you tomorrow.” 

“See ya, Gan,” I say, and head out to drop off the report to the DA before patrol. Catching Chief Redhorn’s eye as I pass the glass window of his office, I give him a big, happy grin and an exaggerated salute. I receive a glower that I’m shocked doesn’t splatter me into goo all over the wall behind me in return. 

But hey. No one can say I never tried. 

Luckily, a person in a high authority position in my current stomping grounds that I get along very well with is Mateo Flores, the District Attorney to Blüdhaven. It’s no secret in the Blüd (or any other city in New Jersey, or the United States, or the world over) that the BPD and local governing bodies are about as clean as the inside of a crap-splattered porta john — long story short, they’re corrupt as actual hell. Mat was brought on three years ago — a year after I first started on the force — and from the get-go, he’s waged an enormous war of attrition on the crooked contingent of officers and officials that have been a dangerous staple in the city over the last decades. Naturally, he and I were instant pals — and often work closely together to ensure that any cops or bureaucrats undeniably guilty of any malfeasance are brought to justice and _not_ wrongfully cleared, as so many had chronically, unforgivably been before his time. 

Coincidentally, I pulled his sister over last night — I decided to let her go with a warning before I made the connection (she looked _hella_ upset about something, and even if the saying goes you shouldn’t drive too mad, sad, or glad, I just couldn’t bring myself to add to whatever had turned the faucets on. Discovering she’s Mat’s sister exonerated me a bit.) I pause a moment, and wonder if I should actually bring it up to Mat at all — I mean, she _was_ busting a good thirty miles over the speed limit on the Spine, and I let her off the hook. _Both_ of us might catch holy hell for it. I chuckle at the thought as I head out the door. 

His office is in the high-rise across the street from the station, making it a short jaunt through the windy, autumnal cold to get there. At least the sun is out, and the leaves are vibrant, catching the light in flashes of rich red and gold. But for as much I’d like to, I can’t hang out and enjoy the foliage, about the only color in the gray, washed out dump that is Blüdhaven — I’m running short on time, and I’m also shivering and windblown in spite of my uniform coat by the time I get into the building. I figure at least there’s my run later to enjoy the rare scenery. 

“Ooohh, you look chilly,” says the secretary, Anita, a wholesome-faced girl and a Blüdhaven implant within the DA’s office from long before my days or Mat’s days here began. “You looking for Mr. Flores?” 

“I am indeed,” I confirm, “ _el diablo_ himself. Just dropping off a report, is he in?” 

She nods and smiles. “He’s got a visitor, but you can head back.” 

I tip an imaginary hat. “Thanks, Anita.” 

“Any time,” she says, and I make my way down the hall to Mat’s smoked glass office door. 

I rap on its surface a few times, and hear the husky sound of his lightly accented voice as it calls out, “Come in.” 

I do, and see there’s a girl standing in front of his desk, leaning against its edge. I figure I’ll make it quick, and indicate the file with the report. 

“Ah, Dickie!” Mat says cheerfully. “You come with my daily bad news, I see.” 

The girl at the desk turns around, and recognizing her immediately as none other than Mat’s sister that I pulled over just last night, I smile even as she does the same. I can see the resemblance between the two as they stand together — both have the same eyes, the same jawline, the same nose. 

“Well, look who it is,” she says amiably, brushing the gleaming sheet of black hair over her slim shoulder. “The white knight himself. Tell me, _cariño,_ are you stalking me?” 

I laugh. “You’re getting warm, Fabulous But Incompetent, but you’re not quite on the stove. I’m actually here to stalk your brother.” 

Catalina chuckles and inclines her head, leaning her hip against the desk. “ _Qué lástima._ But then again, I guess it’s for the better you’re after Mateo here — you couldn’t stalk me up the block without getting caught.” She winks. “Fabulous But Incompetent instincts, and all.” 

I adopt a disappointed, pouty expression. “Well, that effectively ruins all my plans for later…” 

“You know, Dick, speaking of stalking, we were actually just talking about you,” Mat says, chuckling in his easygoing way. 

“Uh-oh,” I say. I look over at Catalina and gesture toward Mat. “Whatever he’s telling you, it’s not true.” 

She laughs. “I should only hope it is, _chulo.”_

“Good things, Dickie, good things, _lo prometo,”_ says Mat, and takes the file with the reports inside as I hand it to him. 

“You say this as she calls me a pimp,” I say. “ _Ay, caramba…”_

He laughs. “I’m fairly sure she meant _chulo_ as in cutie, not pimp — _mi hermanita_ gets a bit flirty, you know.” 

“And _mi hermano mayor_ loves to talk about me like I’m not in the room,” Catalina says. 

Mat grins. “You have time to chat a while? Get to know my sister a bit, here? I’d love a few minutes of procrastination before I have to dive into this mountain of misery and depression.” 

“I’d love to stick around, Mat, but I’m on patrol here in a few,” I tell him. “Anyway, this report’s not too bad. A little dry by the usual Blüdhaven standards — no one dies at the end and all the evidence is pretty cut and dry so far. Should be pretty smooth sailing from here.” 

“No one dies? Smooth sailing? _Dios mío,_ Corporal Grayson, I’ll fall asleep!” Mat exclaims. 

“You’ll need coffee, then,” Catalina says. “Why don’t I bring you some?” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, _hermanita,”_ Mat tells her warmly. “I mean, what else could Anita possibly have have to do other than bring me coffee?” 

“I can think of a few thousand things,” I say with a chuckle. 

“ _Sí,_ let her work, Mateo. I think I owe this boy here a nice gesture for sparing me an expensive ticket, anyway,” Catalina says. She turns to me. “What do you say, _mi caballero blanco? ¿Puedo comprarte un café?”_

I smile. “ _No, gracias, pero te compraré un. Y para tu hermano.”_

She grins in return. “ _Tan generoso. Vamos.”_

“ _Sí,”_ I tell her. “Well, Mat, guess we’ll be back in a minute with your liquid heart attack.” 

He shakes his head. “Dick, is there no end to your brown-nosing?” I laugh. “Tall with a double shot, if you will. _Gracias._ You’re too nice. I’m surprised those streets haven’t chewed you up and spat you back out yet.” 

“Give it time, Mat,” I say lightly. “But I _am_ a Gothamite, don’t forget. _Hasta luego.”_

I head out the door with Catalina falling into step alongside me, figuring Mat’s earned his coffee and I need one before radar duty, anyway. A short walk and chat with a nice girl, conveniently the sister of a good pal and a person I wouldn’t mind getting to know a little better, won’t hurt before the unending boredom of patrol, either. Babs has repeatedly told me that I desperately need to get a life outside of work and Gannon before I wither away and wind up dead inside, anyway — and honestly, I think she might be onto something. Cripes, I can’t even _remember_ the last time I went out just to socialize. Gannon and I went out for a bit of beer and pool a few months ago, but we both got paged to a crime scene ten minutes into the night, so it probably doesn’t count. Might as well get some coffee for Mat with Catalina while I’ve got the rarity of a few minutes to burn and call it a good first step. 

xxxxx 

_Four Weeks Later_

Waves crash violently against the shore below. It’s after midnight as I creep along the perilous ledge of a rambling stone embankment, keeping to the shadows, not making so much as a peep. It’s been _weeks_ since I last had a good, definitive, solid lead on Blockbuster and this nebulous Blockbuster Gang, but I finally got one from a snitch just yesterday morning in the predawn hours, and here I am. 

I move toward the movement my holographic computer picked up. The commotion was out of the range of my own sight and hearing when the computer detected it, the machine’s signals landing it somewhere on the jagged beach that lines this tangled web of derelict, mostly forgotten trails and steep cliff faces. This area, formerly a public forest and beach, is now mostly a shambles, all of it unruly and scheduled at some indeterminate point for the business end of a bulldozer. The cutting November wind bites through the insulated suit, along with a knifing fall of rain. I move carefully, each step deliberate and painstaking. One wrong motion and I’m a battered pancake on the ground below following a bone-rattling tumble down the unstable hillside. I shake my hair away from my forehead before it can string over my eyes, thinking maybe I should finally just cave in and comply with the BPD’s standards and cut it. 

There. Motion. A ways off, down the rocky length of beach in the shadows beneath an overhang of deciduous trees, their autumn foliage lost in the darkness of the rainy night. I speed quietly down the beach, the wind, rain, and shadows affording me some decent cover. I close in on the movement, praying it’s what I’ve come for. 

The tips that I received have partly led me here, to this stretch of abandoned woodland and beach. Supposedly, the remoteness of the location and the inaccessibility of its inhospitable terrain bring members of this underground Blockbuster Gang to take advantage of its comparative secrecy. The theory is sound enough, so again — here I am. 

The motion ahead slows, and I follow suit, my posture hunched low to the ground, my feet gliding quiet as cat’s paws. When I get closer, my posture goes from subtle and stooped to straight-backed and ready, my knees bent and fluid. 

Well, if I was curious about what the Blockbuster Gang got up to while they did their villains gonna vill thing in this unruly wilderness, I can consider my curiosity satisfied as a jolt of nauseating onus goes through me. 

The girl I’ve come upon squats with her back to me as she handles an end of the thick, industrial issue line, not aware of my presence quite yet — or if she is, she’s not letting on. In front of her is a length of tarp wrapped around the unmistakable form of a human body. Nearby are coils of chains and piles of rocks, doubtless intended to send the corpse straight to the bottom of the water. A light boat rocks in the shallows close by, lending credence to this snapshot theory. 

Oh, hell. This just got hairy — and fast. 

I draw the Kali sticks and assume an open offensive stance. 

“Stop what you’re doing,” I command, the words issued in swift, clipped barks, punctuated by the angry howl of the wind. “Turn around and face me. Now.” 

(It ludicrously occurs to me that vestiges of my police work are starting to crop up in my vigilante work — the irony, though.) 

She pauses, and looks over her shoulder. Even in the darkness, I don’t miss the smirk on her full lips. 

“Is this facing you enough?” she asks, her voice softly accented, something about it ringing dimly familiar. “I’m a little busy here — you’re awful rude to interrupt, you know.” 

I’m not about to rise to the occasion presented by the lighthearted tone in her voice. I don’t take kindly to dead bodies on my watch. I light up the sticks, illuminating the scene around us in a wash of electric blue. “You say that as you wrap up a dead body. Turn all the way around. Face me.” 

The girl straightens unhurriedly, drawing herself to her full, slender height, and languidly turns. She places a hand on her hip, and cocks her head. The heavy tail of her hair swings away from her shoulder. 

“Well, it’s about time,” she observes, her voice easy, affable, even. “I wondered when I’d finally come face to face with the venerated First Hero of Blüdhaven. And I have to say — you’re a little bossy, aren’t you?” She gestures. “Relax, _guapo._ We’re on the same side.” 

“Somehow, I doubt that,” I say, indicating the body behind her. “I don’t know who you think you are, but if you think we bat for the same team, this is when I tell you I don’t stand for killing in my city.” 

“ _Your_ city,” she says, her smirk doubling. “You know, I was here before you, _muchacho_. And no killing? Where’s the fun in that?” 

Even if she’s snarking, her tone is easygoing and far from aggressive. I hold my position, and wrack my memory files to see if I can recall any relevant info that might clue me into who this girl is. Again, something about her is ringing an increasingly loud bell, and she _did_ say she was here before me — but all the info on Blüdhaven that I looked into never said anything about vigilante activity before I moved here some years back, and let’s be frank. I think I’d remember this woman very clearly if I’d knowingly come across her before. 

She’s maybe a head shorter than I am, her build close and lithe, her hair long and dark. She wears a fitted, two-piece suit, the material lightly armored, its cut and color scheme not unlike that of Tigress’. An insignia that resembles a spider is emblazoned across the chest. A mask covers the upper half of her face, leaving only her oblong jaw and plush lips visible. Drawing a completely unhelpful blank, I realize that she could be anything in that unfamiliar costume — an aspiring vigilante native to the city, or on the flip, an accomplished villain, held close in Blockbuster’s inner circle, one of the gang members that Gannon and I have sought for months to find. 

Although if _that’s_ the case, I have no idea why she’d think she’s on my side, or I on hers. 

“Who are you?” I ask, my grip tightening on the Kali sticks at the sight of the blades on her hip and the holstered firearms on her other. 

She smiles, and again, tilts her head. 

“You can call me Tarantula, _hermoso,”_ she says, “and if you don’t know me… well, I know you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> carino—honey, sweetie, cutie  
> Que lastima—what a shame  
> chulo—cutie (sometimes pimp... but not in this case) :D  
> Lo prometo—I promise  
> Ay, caramba—wow, dang!  
> Mi hermanita—my little sister  
> Mi hermano mayor—my big brother  
> Dios mio—my god  
> Mi caballero blanco—my white knight  
> Puedo comprarte un cafe—Can I buy you a coffee  
> No, gracias, pero te comprare un. Y para tu hermano—No, thanks, but I'll buy you one. And for your brother.  
> Tan generoso. Vamos—How (or so) generous. Let's go.  
> Hasta luego—see ya later  
> guapo—good-looking  
> Muchacho—boy, kid (as in male)  
> Hermoso—handsome


	3. La Belle Fleur Sauvage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yooooooo!!
> 
> Happy early Valentine's Day (or Single's Awareness Day, or my personal favorite, Galentine's Day :D), everyone! Have a little bit of crazy just before the day of love and friendship! :D :D :D
> 
> TRIGGER: Much stalking, creeping, and violating behavior ahead... Might be a little perturbing to some. Definitely would like to leave an ample warning regarding the squicky material here. <3 
> 
> Disclaimer: Catalina's opinion of Babs is NOT the author's (or Dick's) opinion of Babs. :D
> 
> TPC, this chapter does not in any way reflect those little quirks of mine that we have discussed... NORLY :D 
> 
> As always, Spanish translations at the end! <3 
> 
> All my love, everybody... Enjoy! 
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 3**

From our first meeting, _cariño,_ I wanted to know you. 

From our second, I _had_ to. 

We left my brother’s office (how lucky I was to be there, inquiring after you, when you came in!), and walked up the block to the coffee shop through the chill of the day, chewing over the sunshine and leaves, griping about how cold the nights were already getting here in the Blüd. But hey, we both agreed, the bite in the air was the perfect excuse for an additional cup of joe. 

Mateo had been in a meeting the night before, deferring me to the following day, and of course, as I went to look into your social media to appease my curiosity, Blockbuster infuriatingly happened, calling me to duty, inconvenient traffic stop or no. It was a long night, and one that effectively kept me from what I _wanted_ to do (which was to check you out a bit online), but the next afternoon as I walked beside you, I decided that this was vastly better than whatever the Internet had to offer. _More_ than worth waiting for. 

You called coffee _joe._ Your smile was wide, ready, and easy. Your eyes were _so blue_ in the sunlight, your hair so glossy and black, your form even more fit and graceful than I first thought as I subtly watched you move beside me. You are a gymnast, _querido —_ sure to have some truly fantastic motion in your ocean. I fell back as we entered the shop so I could sneak a look at your (perfect) ass in your uniform trousers. You held the door for me. 

Standing in line, listening to the softly crooning indie tunes over the speakers, I inched just a little closer to you, wondering where your personal bubble began, and was thrilled to learn that you don’t seem to have one. So I hovered close to you, enjoying the faint, teasing hint of what I thought to be your aftershave (it was too quiet, too unassuming to be cologne), loving the scent, and more so loving the pure, raw exuberance that hummed from you in palpable waves. So many uses for that boundless energy of yours that I can think of off the top of my head, let me tell you! 

“So tell me, _guapo,”_ I said as we waited. “Why are you buying me a coffee when I offered first?” 

You gave me an adorably contrite smile. “Because I made you cry?” 

I smirked at you. “Well, that’s very sweet, but who said _you_ made me cry?” 

Your smile gentled, and when you spoke, so did your voice. “Well, no one… but in that case, all the more reason to buy you coffee — cheer you up a bit after whoever _did_ make you cry.” 

“Again,” I said. “My white knight.” 

“Speaking of, care to share that information?” you asked. “Who’s the creep — I mean, who do I have to pull over and actually ticket? Bring into the station on some drummed up charges? Maybe rough him up a little?” 

With that, even as we goofed around about police brutality, my mind was made up. It was _cemented._ And there is no changing my mind once it’s made up. I got to work the second we left that coffee shop and you dropped me off at my car before rushing back to the station to launch off on your patrol. 

You held the door, on the ways in _and_ out. You bought my coffee for me (and not just a cup, but a bag of some special limited edition roast I was eyeballing in line.) You _cared_ that I cried, even if those tears were fake, unbeknownst to you. You made an effort to make me happy, make me laugh, cheer me up. You _cared._ Do you know how long it’s been since someone — other than Mateo, and even _his_ compassion has its limits — truly _cared_ about me? 

I was going to know everything about you. _Everything._

And I have learned so much over the last four weeks, _guapo._

You live in a studio efficiency apartment on the topmost floor of a building in the Upper East Side. Personal curiosity (and I am generally an avidly curious person, _cariño_ ) led me to discover that your rent is set at $625 per month, landing in the pocket of a nice old man named Hank. Incidentally, he has the best mullet I’ve ever seen. You help him with odd jobs around the building once in a while — the occasional leaky commode, busted air conditioner, exploding furnace, whatever. Is that what grants you your comparatively low rent, which is equivalent to grand larceny in Blüdhaven and a boon on your lousy cop’s salary? If it were anyone else, I’d accuse you of playing the role of Handy Manny to have those couple of bucks knocked off your bill. 

But it’s you, and you just help people — even if there’s no discount, bonus check, or unbirthday cake in it for you. I’ve caught you assisting the young Puerto Rican woman in the apartment next door to you with her grocery bags, walking her husband through a legal document since his English is horrendously broken, and even allowing her two sons to do video game battle on your couch while the mother ducked out to run errands one Sunday afternoon that the father was at work. The _pasteles_ she made for you surely sweetened the deal, providing you a direly needed change in your cringe-worthy diet comprised nearly a hundred percent of sugary cereal (how is it you’ve not joined the ranks of the overweight, huffing, red-faced _cerdos_ that you share work space with on that diet, _guapo?_ Truly, the mind reels. Just so you know, _querido,_ when you’re mine, I won’t allow you to continue subsisting on that nutritionless _mierda_ and garbage. I’ll take good care of you.) However, I can tell just by watching that you don’t expect her to pay you for, as you yourself told her, “ _Solo siendo un buen vecino.”_

It shouldn’t surprise me, though, really. Mateo himself said without hesitation, “Oh, Dickie’s probably one of the nicest guys you’ll ever meet, _hermanita_. Just a sweetheart — like he’d not just give you the shirt off his back, he’d give you his kidney if you needed it. Great cop, works hard, smart as a whip, plays with well with others, we’re all lucky to know him.” 

And FYI, Mat does _not_ generally find the good in people too readily. I knew from the moment he sang your glowing praises that you were the pick of the litter — just as I thought. 

Finding out where you live was easy enough ( _gracias, hermano)_ , but sneaking into the confines of your home and setting up the two itty-bitty cameras (one with an equally itty-bitty mic) that you’ll never find unless you’re actively directed to them certainly was not. You’re a suspicious one, I thought, as I first made my way into your unassuming digs, finding signs of not so unassuming motion activated remote alarm systems — high tech things that connect to your personal cell phone. I had paused exaggeratedly upon entry as though arrested in a game of freeze tag, all bent limbs and wobbling, precarious balance, knowing that if my toenail so much as quivered you’d receive a catastrophic text message informing you that there was an intruder in your apartment. And then what? I stood like a statue, a facsimile of the Virgin Mother dancing the Macarena, _ensuring_ I didn’t trigger the damn thing, and carefully backtracked into the hallway. Phew. 

Checking for passersby, coming up with a ruse if I were to be caught there just futzing around in your doorway as though I owned the place and were high on PCP, I swiftly got to work. Temporarily disabling these alarm systems and covering any record or evidence of tampering with them was an intricate task, certainly harder than circumventing your extravagant locks with my lockpicking kit, but it wasn’t anything I hadn’t done before. In maybe half an hour, I’d at last bought my way into your apartment — and into your private life. 

I’m compelled to say that I’m so very sorry for the cameras. Just _so_ very sorry. I know objectively that such a thing is downright creepy and more than a little strange, and the measure feels drastic and dare I say a bit violating even to me — _ay, caramba! —_ but I didn’t have much recourse, _precioso._ The circumstances of your life, your general lack of availability, your tendency not to be home much, and the added tendency toward privacy when you _are_ home all rendered their installation necessary if I’m to learn about you — and besides, I want to know the _real_ you, not the gussied up, on-temporary-good-behavior you. I don’t want to pick through the cautious, reticent, best-face-forward version of Dick Grayson to get to the one I want _,_ the _real_ Richard John Grayson, as would be the natural course of things. And as the meme would say, ain’t nobody got time for that — since getting to know someone is like peeling an onion. It makes you cry and it’s layers upon layers upon layers. I would rather be graced first with the _under_ layers — all the bad habits, the dark corners, the vices, all of the visceral components of you that make you _real_. It’s so much more gratifying and true, _guapo,_ and while it’s a little extreme, I’ll happily do it for love _._ And undetected observation of you as you live your life unfiltered in your natural habitat is the only way to get what I want without undergoing the tedious, disappointing, years-long process of sifting through the prettier outer layers of your proverbial onion first. 

I would normally never have done it otherwise — Scout’s Honor, and I _was_ a Girl Scout once. 

Anyhow, the whole process of setting up shop in your little abode was just a matter of going back to my roots and coaxing my old, stiff FBI muscles out of their present atrophy. It’s been a long time since I did some good, motivated investigative work — not since I lost _him_ all those years ago. 

And honestly, _guapo,_ it’s felt good. I’ve missed the Bureau, missed my work, and most of all, missed the feeling that it gave me, that _he_ gave me. In the years since losing both, I’ve entertained an endless sense that I’ve shuffled like a zombie cast extra from _The Walking Dead_ along a colorless path, everything around me a washed out, empty gray scale, my steps robotic and passive and pinballing me from one shapeless thing to the next. 

Until _you_ came waltzing up to me four weeks ago in the early October gales off the water, bringing color and purpose back into my dull, flagging life. And here I am, pursuing that purpose with all my former tenacity. I have you to thank — and not just for letting me off scot-free after driving like a bat out of hell (ha, ha!) down the Spine. 

I figured at first that the overkill levels of security and privacy you show was a holdover from life with that billionaire foster father of yours — people that rich are _bred_ suspicious. It’s like a genetic code for one percenters, being so hilariously paranoid they give you secondhand embarrassment. But imagine just how far out from under my feet I had the rug yanked when I discovered in my initial foray into your living space that _you_ — an upstanding corporal within the Blüdhaven Police Department, loved by his non-crooked fellows, commended for his distinguished performance — were none other than the _vigilante hero Nightwing_. I could just hear the deafening _DUN DUN DUNNNNN_ of the orchestra. 

_Ah,_ this _is the reason for your borderline paranoid need for privacy…!_ I thought to myself with glee and a sense of reverence and awe, aghast as I turned up your suits, your weapons, your tools, the virtual logs on your computer. You keep everything locked up, but I found your passwords and combinations in a little composition book wedged under your mattress. You have them listed in the notebook’s pages — just free floating combinations of words, letters, numbers, and punctuation characters. They’re not listed with the devices or websites that they’re connected to, meaning I had to spend some time entering blurbs from the list until — eureka! — I finally gained access to your desktop and safes. Ah, _treasure troves_ of all things Dick Grayson — _Nightwing._

(Honestly, _guapo,_ it wasn’t very considerate of you to make me work so hard, but I suppose I can punish you in all the best ways later. Don’t worry. I promise it won’t feel like punishment.) 

A law enforcement officer by day _breaking_ the laws he swore to uphold by night, I thought incredulously, fingering the material of the Nightwing suit. _La disparidad!_ But when the initial shock of my incredible discovery faded, and the more I learned about you as I picked through your affects and later watched or shadowed your steps as you obliviously went about your daily routine over the weeks following, I began to allow that in spite of the disparity, it makes some semblance of sense. 

My poor, sweet _niño,_ left all alone in the world when you were so young, your beloved _familia_ wrested from you so suddenly and tragically by a despicable, gruesome crime. You have fought all your life for the tiny, powerless boy you were — I see it in your tireless devotion to your work first as Robin, now as Nightwing. I see it in your career choice — a dedicated Good Cop determined to protect and to serve, to keep the peace and uphold your ideals. You want to save every other child like you, don’t you, _mi amor?_ Spare every last one of them the heartbreak and trauma that you so unfairly suffered when you were too small to protect your cherished _mama y papa,_ your aunt, your uncle, your cousin? I understand, sweetheart. Truly, I do. One day, I will share with you my own story, once you are mine. I am a former FBI agent working as a vigilante, too, after all, and I hardly got to where I am by random happenstance. I wonder what you will say when you learn that I, Catalina Flores, am none other than a member of the very same Blockbuster Gang you’re chasing with your partner and on your own time. That my alias is inspired by my own late partner’s former vigilante identity — the Tarantula. 

Your open-ended rescue mission — a mission I can tell you will never truly come to fruition, it is one you will fight until you draw your last breath — well… it doesn’t leave much room for an actual life, I’ve noticed as I’ve watched the footage from my cameras _pequeñas_ and tailed you throughout the days and nights that I either have free or can incorporate into my duties to Blockbuster (easily done, considering that my target, Blockbuster or no, over the last weeks was your boss.) Anyone who would look at you would think you have it all on first glance — you’re devastatingly handsome, after all, gorgeously _en forma_ and effortlessly appealing, but so genuinely charming and sweet, too. Such a rarely occurring anthropological combination, _guapo_. Lesser, more jealous specimens might consider you disgusting, actually, watching your unfairly good-looking self as you excel in your police work and make yourself essentially a free slot machine of Random Acts of Kindness. And whether these same citizens whose heads you turn just by walking down the street realize it, they depend on you to keep them safe, to make their world a better place, as you clean up their crime-drenched city at night like a phantom avenging angel. You are the king that looks out for his own. 

But the bare, ugly truth is, _querido —_ you’re every bit as much a slave to your realm as you are emperor. 

You’re up at five every morning on the dot, faithful as clockwork no matter what ungodly hour you turn in at, starting your coffee machine (you take your cup black with rock sugar and drink three rapidfire first thing. I daresay you are addicted to _azúcar,_ hmm?) Next it’s working up a rigorous sweat in the rigged gym in the main room of your apartment and chasing your workout with varying series of stretches that defy human physiology and are an amusing joy to observe. Although, just _watching_ you tuckers me out and makes me feel fat and out of shape — and I’m no slouch, so thanks for that, you adorable _idiota._ Then it’s off to the kitchen with you to gulp down enormous _tazas de agua_ with childish abandon and speed, followed immediately by bowls of your ubiquitous sugary cereal and a glass of some unpalatable-looking protein drink. Finally, you grab a quick shower (allowing yourself a few minutes of feverish masturbation prior to actually cleaning up — _ay,_ hu-hu!) before you head to work at the station at seven. 

(My single mission into your living quarters revealed that you are brand loyal to Aveda and Shiseido with regard to your toiletries, the source of your tantalizing scent and the one indicator of your trust fund kid status in your otherwise modest — and messy — apartment. I have to commend your determination to be self-sufficient, even with your access to that same mind-blowing trust fund.) 

Nose ever to the grindstone (like sugar, you are addicted to work, perhaps?), you then work your beat with an admirable dedication alongside your partner Gannon Malloy, mouth off cheerfully to Chief Redhorn (who deserves the bodily harm you doubtless envision inflicting on him, no shame in admitting it, _cariño_ ), and goof around with the dowdy little Assistant Chief of Police. When you punch your ticket at five, usually after coming off laser duty, you go home and shuck the blue uniform in favor of trackies, and while most people would consider this to be the end of the day _period_ at this point, the indolent lifestyles of bloated America are not for you. Instead, you perform a routine seven-mile run around the blocks of Blüdhaven (I subtly tailed you on your route one day.) Then you shovel some more of that cereal into your face while you write some obligatory emails to your foster dad, the Wayne family butler, Alfred, who is more like a grandfather to you, and your foster brother, Jason. You might putz with your netsec geekery, chat with friends online, play some video games, or watch a couple of episodes of something on your Roku (anything Investigation Discovery — shocker, _Stranger Things,_ _Silicon Valley,_ Audrey Tautou movies. I’ve heard you say more than once she’s your celebrity crush.) You indulge in more dates with Rosie Palms in these interims every so often. And even then, _mi amor,_ you’re not done — because once all of that is over, it’s time for your night job, donning the mask and electric blue insignia to faithfully, selflessly protect all the subjects in your kingdom. If scientists are still looking to create a perpetual motion machine, they need look no farther than you. 

But speaking of this… Oh, Dick, how many of your friends and loved ones scattered across the universe and limited to paltry Internet exchanges know how _exhausted_ you so obviously are, stumbling half-dead back into your apartment through your little secret entrance and peeling your uniform away to tumble into a tub full of Epsom salts, all too often falling asleep before jerking awake in the water once it’s gone cold? You finally transition naked and shivering to your bed where you finish out the night in a restless doze, one blanket dragged haphazardly across your sprawled body. Then you start all over again the following day — and weekends aren’t much different. God, you need someone to love you, to look after you. You are so lonely, _querido._

Ah, but at least the weekends bring with them the false social life of the web, with you concentrating your activity into a bulk flurry of posts and photos that generally come in one giant spam burst on Sunday mornings. Usually while you’re lying in bed, naked as the day you were born, and glorious as the dawn (if you don’t mind me saying so.) 

Looking into your pages was a bit of a disappointment, I must say. You can usually learn so much about a person just looking at their social media accounts — what sort of facade they prefer to present to the world, what their idealized, cleaned-up versions of their _selves_ are. These little vignettes can unintentionally paint a very solid (and often unflattering) picture of the person behind the account if you know what to look for — and I do. But your posts and photos are so wholesome and _nerdy_ that although they’re cute and humorous to look at, they are, at their core, painfully, boringly neutral. 

It was through your Instagram page that I learned that your favorite animal is an elephant, you not only perform with Haly’s Circus but own it, you are a fan of Jim Butcher, Gillian Flynn, and Camilla d’Errico, you like pizza, burgers, and/or sushi when you’re not eating cereal, you like eighties and trance music, and apart from your foster brother, father, and sorta- _abuelo_ , you also have two godchildren — a pair of twins, belonging to your best male friend (Wally West, a physicist and professor at Stanford) and his wife (Artemis, a translator for the UN.) She’s Asian, pretty, normally a girl I’d perceive immediately as an enormous threat to be promptly destroyed, married status be damned. But she’s clearly devoted to her man, so I’ve decided not to hate her. It won’t hurt to have that little apparent spitfire in my corner if we happen to encounter any flames from your other barbarian friends, anyway, given your closeness to the West family. 

Dickie, have I mentioned how darling you are with your godchildren? Ah, it’s as though I crafted you in a computer, custom-made to suit all of my requirements and desires. Incidentally, the godmother to the kids is an ex-girlfriend of yours, but from everything I see, your romantic relationship is ancient history and your current interactions smack of a harmless, vanilla BFF vibe. Still — this traveling magician who often does guest performances with your circus is on my radar, with your collective past and her sultry eyes. 

You’re somewhat active on Reddit, enjoying the netsec pages and computer nerd subReddits, but favor your public Instagram account (and you really ought to post more selfies, _tu bombón.)_ Your personal desktop revealed that your Facebook use is relegated mostly to the messenger service and “liking” your friends’ posts, and you almost never use Twitter. 

Forums for netsec gurus like yourself don’t really constitute social media by definition, and you are generally notably more active on these, sharing research and tools and brainstorming with your fellow nerds the world over. But (and commend me for yawning my way through this soporific trash — ah, the things I do for love) you reveal little about yourself in these conversations minus what you’ve learned and what you know, and even then you’re guarded about what you share. 

Essentially, Dickie, you never air your dirty laundry on the Internet, short of barefaced yearly posts on the anniversary of your family’s deaths. There’s not much _real_ material to glean from your social media, just like there’s not much to glean from your public persona. 

_Dios mío, cariño,_ I’d never get to know you if I’d not installed the cameras. At least the guilt over them is absolved by that knowledge, because for all you are emotionally open and an affable, gregarious man who wears his heart on his sleeve, you are, in truth, an intensely private, secretive person. 

But I received one enormously important bombshell looking through your social media, and it was the same information that clinched my decision to implant the cameras — _you are engaged._

I was _nauseated,_ absolutely _sick_ over the news at first, garnered just before I set up shop in your home. I ransacked your page and feed to look into this _Barbara Gordon,_ pillaging your info like an enraged, vengeful pirate — but I was quickly mollified when I found that, comparatively speaking, she’s not especially interesting, or even very cute. Easily defeated on looks alone — bar none. I could fall in a mud puddle and get zapped with lightning while wearing an eighties pantsuit and I’d _still_ look better than she would after she had a date with a plastic surgeon, a personal shopper, and a professional hair and makeup team. Maybe she’d look all right if she’d just make an effort, but she never does, and trust me, _guapo —_ she’s not one of those that can get away with not trying, unlike you. (How on earth did the two of you end up together?) 

I was further appeased when I realized that, on thinking about it, you’ve never mentioned her to me, not once. Not a single reference to her was made in the times we’ve crossed paths in civvies (two of which were carefully orchestrated and intended to appear to be purely circumstantial as I visited my brother for bogus but justifiable reasons, and once entirely… well, _almost_ entirely by accident at the corner grocery store you favor where you “helped” me find the coconut water. I _may_ have started shopping there because I know it’s where you buy your cereals.) 

And just observing your interactions with this freckle-faced, bespectacled, wheelchair-bound _Barbara Gordon_ when she comes to visit, I think I know why you’ve never bothered to mention her to me, even in passing. _Dios maldito,_ Dick — I can tell you as an arbitrary viewer that this relationship has got about as much joy and passion in it as a torture chamber in the bowels of the Tower of London. 

I can also tell you, _mi amor,_ that just through observing you in your uninhibited private life and bearing witness to your interactions with this boring fiancée of yours when she comes along to visit that I _definitely_ know you damn well better than she does. Every Saturday, her mustachioed father drops her off for your weekly face-to-face visit, as though you are a pair of Catholic schoolchildren living on separate boarding campuses and proscribed to an arranged marriage. Just what the hell _is_ this relationship, _guapo —_ beyond some obligatory pity move after a devastating injury or a less fucked in the head _Whatever Happened to Baby Jane_? I ought to send little Babsy’s chair on a well-timed descent down the stairs and do us _both_ a favor. You’ll grieve, of course — but my arms will be waiting. 

Does she know how often you touch yourself, I wonder? How frequently in your brief intervals spent at home your hand slides down the planes of your solid abdomen, freeing your cock and stroking fast and frenetic, as though _grasping_ for something you desperately need but can never quite reach, until you come all over yourself? Does she know that she does not and cannot satisfy you? 

She _has_ to suspect, I figure, given she’s certainly not stupid (in fact, deductive reasoning and further investigation revealed that she’s Oracle, master hacker in charge of Gotham’s Birds of Prey. Hmph. Of course she is, so overbearing and puffed up and self-important, _la puta_.) And in the times I’ve seen the two of you together, you talk endlessly about her work with her precious “birds” (she considers you one of her little underlings when you come up to Gotham via commission — _el Jesucristo,_ Dickie, how can you stand her? She is so beneath you), and _maybe_ she’ll ask you about how your own work with the police and Nightwing duties are going. An impressive ten minutes might be spent on that subject before she initiates the most insipid, milk-and-water lovemaking — if you could even call it that — I’ve ever witnessed. 

She doesn’t _know_ you, though, _querido,_ not at all. She doesn’t know what you need, doesn’t understand you, doesn’t realize how deprived of _real_ love, affection, and validation you are. She doesn’t appreciate you. Sometimes, I think she doesn’t even _like_ you. She treats you like a goddamn service animal, Dick. 

You’re lucky to get a short handy out of her, and I’ve _never_ seen her give you a blow job, not even once. Meanwhile, you lavish extravagant attention on her breasts (which are boxy and sag — if my tits looked like that, the devil himself couldn’t pry my bra away) until you ploy an orgasm from her through her big, ugly nipples. Sometimes you methodically titty-fuck her half-unmoving form until you finally (and soundlessly) issue a tiny ejaculation onto her neck, not even enough to effectively give her a pearl necklace. Tsk, _mi amor,_ shake my head. And I’ve seen you love yourself — you’re perfectly capable of launching significant blasts when things are working for you and the orgasms are good. And you’re a bit of a singer, _chulo —_ not a strong-but-silent type. You scream into a pillow so as not to disturb your neighbors when you make yourself come, yet this girl can’t even get a grunt from you. 

Afterward, since she never seems to want to cuddle you or even lie close for longer than a few minutes (seriously, is she some sort of robot?), you get up, make her some coffee, and listen to her wank some more about who-cares-what while you sit on the floor at her feet, your positioning so submissive, so subjugated — but then, you live to serve, I suppose. 

Is this — is _she —_ what you feel you deserve? Are you punishing yourself even now, _mi amor,_ because you failed your family when you were young? Do you allow this vacuous farce of a relationship to go on and on because it’s the love you think you’ve earned? 

It all hurts my soul, _querido —_ it _hurts_ it _._ Here you are after endless stretches of time of working your fingers to the bone and risking your life for people who neither notice nor give a damn, rubbing _her_ back and shoulders and pampering _her_ and letting _her_ dictate all of your activities. And all that bitch does is bark orders at others and press some buttons on her computer — why does _she_ get the weekend, with you ordering in or cooking for her (whatever _she_ wants, and it’s the only time I ever see you cook), watching _her_ shows on your TV, asking her how _she’s_ doing and never truly indicating how _you’re_ doing? Where’s _your_ weekend, other than those self-contained social media sessions and the one Sunday you slept like a dead thing from dawn to dusk, unmoving in a stretched lump across your bed before you finally roused to go out on your vigilante patrol? 

I would never stand for such a thing, _guapo,_ for you to live and be treated like this, as though you’re some pet bird to command, neglect, and swat upside the head if you dare squawk out of turn. No, I would worship every inch of ground you ever set foot on, love every centimeter of you, dote on and exalt you every second of every day. I would lavishly thank you for your hard, hard work and bend over backward to make your difficult life even a little easier. I’d make you feel validated for how tirelessly and selflessly you stick your own neck out for the oblivious public. I would feed you, pamper you, treasure you, and yes — I would suck your gorgeous cock and make love to you until you screamed every night if that was what you desired. No gibes about your shortcomings (which precious Barbara _loves_ to dish out, just continuous little digs about your capricious, lady’s man past and vacantly trusting nature — “a golden retriever who wags his tail at everything and always brings the newspaper,” she said once, a jab that made my blood go white-hot and shoot through my veins at light speed — oh, I’d have loved to tie those old hag boobs of hers around her neck and choke her with them.) No nitpicks with regard to how you go about your work, or endless reams of uninvited, unwarranted criticism (“You know, it’s _past_ time you outgrew this bachelor lifestyle crap — you’re twenty-four years old, when’s the last time you ate something other than cereal for dinner or ran a Swiffer over your floors? You’re going to waste away and be found dead in your apartment half-eaten by wild dogs one of these days.”) 

While I might find hints of merit in a lot of her statements, I fail to recognize how this hamfisted approach is even remotely fair or called for, when all _you_ do is smile at her, love her, care for her, and take her never-ending bullshit in return. Maybe you _are_ a golden retriever, always wagging your tail and bringing the newspaper. 

And there, yes, _there_ is your major shortcoming, _mi amor —_ you are too kind, much too kind, your heart too big for your own good. You spinelessly tolerate things that even the most benevolent saint would piss all over and light on fire in a fit of justified rage. Your virtues just as easily become your flaws. 

But don’t worry. When you are mine, I will help you shed that sheaf of flesh like the ill-fitting skin that it is. I will help you to learn that you _do,_ in fact, deserve better. And I will do everything in my power to _be_ that better that you deserve. Oh, _hermoso,_ I will make you so happy — so, so happy. So much happier, so much more content than you are now. You’ll be loved and honored, spoiled rotten and regarded as the prince among men that you are — _lo prometo,_ cross my heart. 

And that day will be sooner than you know, I think with a delicious shiver of anticipation as you stand across from me on the abandoned beach this gusty November night, the blades of rain skeining in sheets between us. Your illuminated sticks lifted aggressively in an offensive stance reflect their blue light off the droplets that coat your face, your features in stark relief and so _close_ I could touch them, no longer intangible and grainy through a feed or lost in distance and pedestrian traffic. So reminiscent of the night we met. 

Now we stand, Nightwing and Tarantula, vigilante hero and vigilante vengeance-seeker, face to face. 

I spun the web and drew you out, _guapo,_ all through my weeks of fastidious planning and orchestration, anonymously giving all the right information and tips to your CIs, the little bits and blurbs that would eventually lure you here. And _ahí está!_ Here we are, Nightwing at last bound inside Tarantula’s web. 

I will cut ties with Blockbuster after tonight, once I’ve achieved my immediate goal. And the body behind me is my last severance, my final farewell to all that would have held me captive in the haunts of my past, to the demons that might never have allowed me to give myself fully to you. _Why the poor stiff behind me,_ I’m sure you’ll ask, _why him_ — and I’ll tell you. 

And now the rain falls, soaking the both of us, and ah, _mi amado,_ I am free, I am purged, I am clean. _I am yours._

And I am ready to make you mine. Watching you, I _know_ that this is love, that what I feel is what people only ever dream and sing about, what they only ever pray and hope for. How lucky we are — what a _gift._ Ah, _te amo, mi querido, te amo con todo mi corazón —_ let me show you just how much. Let me crack open your world and show you all the thrilling possibilities my love holds for you. There is none on this planet nor any other in the wide, wide universe that will ever love you as I do, Dick — all others are but ghosts, breaths, swiftly evaporated afterthoughts next to me. 

Come with me now, _mi amor_ — _begin_ with me. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Querido: Darling, dear, beloved, lover  
> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Pasteles: Puerto Rican dish, namely a type of tamale (usually served at Christmas, side note)  
> Cerdos: Pigs  
> Mierda: Shit  
> Solo siendo un buen vecino: Just being a good neighbor  
> Hermanita: Little sis  
> Gracias, hermano: Thanks, bro  
> Ay, caramba: Wow, dang! Aw, man! Oh, dear! Oh, jeez! (etc.)  
> Precioso: Precious, beautiful  
> La disparidad: The disparity  
> Nino: Boy, child (m)  
> Familia: Family  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Mama y papa: Mom and dad  
> Pequenas: Small  
> En forma: Fit  
> Azucar: Sugar  
> Idiota: Idiot (m, f)  
> Tazas de agua: Glasses of water (might have been much but I liked the sound better)  
> Ay: Whoah, wow  
> Tu bombon: You hunk  
> Abuelo: Grandfather  
> Dios mio: My god  
> Dios maldito: God damn  
> La puta: Bitch, whore  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Chulo: Cutie (sometimes pimp, but again, not here) :D  
> Lo prometo: I promise  
> Hermoso: Handsome  
> Ahi esta: Here we are  
> Mi amado: My beloved  
> Te amo, mi querido, te amo con todo mi corazon: I love, my darling, I love you with all my heart


	4. La Araña

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo!!
> 
> BUWAAAAA SO MANY CHANGEEESSSSS. XD XD MUCH ALTERNATE UNIVERSE, MUCH CANON DIVERGENCE. XD I changed up Jonathan Law's history A LOOOTTTT to work within this story... retconned his age and character history and relationship with Catalina. They're so major I actually feel like I committed character assassination... apologies in advance! D: (But he DID fit the bill for this role, so I opted to go through with my overhaul, lol.) <3
> 
> Heavy material ahead, including things like murder, references to hate crimes, drunk driving/accidents, death, serious injustice, etc. 
> 
> I feel compelled to let everyone know that Catalina is telling the truth all the way through this chapter. <3 (Again with the altered character history. I added a character, too...) XD Not sure if her parents' names were ever given, and going through my comics and the Wikipedia I can't find any reference to them, so I just came up with names off the cuff for them.
> 
> It's a long chapter, sorry, everyone! Lots to cover here. Still, hope you enjoy. <3 ^_^
> 
> Much love... and now, off to bed I go! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 4**

So I can’t say that I anticipated picking up a protégé when I zoomed out my door this morning in a panic, desperate to fix the potential mess on my plate before it could become just that — a giant mess. But, here I am, with a brand new apprentice, minted mere hours ago and not even introduced to the streets or greater public yet. Blockbuster is going to have a _conniption_ when he finds out that one of his own peons grew a pair (or in this case, always had a pair) and defected. 

Somehow, the knowledge of my new role as mentor brings an equally unanticipated tingling of _life_ back into me. It reanimates vitals long gone complacent and automatic, rouses feelings and emotions dormant and almost forgotten. I inhale, for the first time in a _long_ time really smelling the hint of damp on the air, really catching the first crisp notes of the upcoming winter. I feel a cold coming on, but it doesn’t matter as the air swells powerfully in my lungs, driving my adrenaline-amped heartbeat. It’s as though I’ve been asleep for months and months, and am only just waking up. 

I feel _alive._

It’s pretty mindboggling to think that when I first came upon the girl on the beach just last night, the one in the orange and black, I approached her as a villain, was _convinced_ she was a villain, was ready to apprehend her as a villain — and now, less than a day later, that same girl is on my arm as my trainee, ready to confront the streets of Blüdhaven together as mentor and student. Those tables sure turned fast, I think, amused as I look over at her while she hooks her mask over her face. Not even twenty-four hours, and this gigantically pivotal change fell on my life — and more so, even in the scant time frame, it’s proving to be _everything_ the doctor ordered. 

It’s amazing. _She’s_ amazing. 

And yes — I can already comfortably say as much. Last night proved it with remarkable efficiency. 

“You don’t know me,” she had said after introducing herself as Tarantula, “but I know you.” 

Then, like a shot, she was off running — sprinting away from the beach, spidering up the rocky embankment that lined the woods above us. I vacillated only for the hint of a second, uncertain about just leaving the poor stiff on the beach unattended, but figured this girl _had_ to be my first priority. I had no idea who she really was, what she meant by saying she knew me, no clues as to her game or her headspace, what side she aligned with (even if she’d said she was on mine.) I _needed_ to catch up to her and get some answers, and stat. 

I shouted her “name” and chased her into the forest, breaking through the branches and over the underbrush, the wet, rainy darkness barely illuminated by the light from the Kali stick I kept in hand. I was putting in a serious effort — and the girl was _still_ losing me, her motions graceful and efficient, making the job of cutting through the overgrown forest look downright easy. It was like watching a freaking _dance_ — and I couldn’t help but feel a little like she was taunting me as she skated away. 

_Damn,_ I thought disconnectedly, _this girl can_ really _haul —_

I gambled the briefest delay on dividing my attention long enough to holster the stick and depress the switch on my mask to engage its nightvision lenses, and then really propelled myself through the forest, working hard to make up for the ground I’d lost with the advantage of better visibility. 

By the time we’d hit the overgrown remnants of an old trail — much easier terrain — I was somewhat closing the gap, although I suspect she may have been slowing on purpose (and I was prompted to consider maybe adding some more sprints to my daily workouts.) There was a nonchalant spring in her step as she pranced down the path, and close enough to her by then, I hurled a set of bolas at her ankles. 

She stumbled, still fluid in her motions even as she went face first to the rooted muck of the trail — again, deliberately? I pounded the rest of the way to her, fully intending to detain her by force if necessary — I mean, for all I knew, she was a murderer or at the _least_ a violent felon, and by all appearances, pretty uncooperative, too, going by the sudden game of free-spirited, unconcerned tag she initiated. 

I was on my knees, the charged bolas I use as cuffs when I’m doing my Nightwing thing in hand, when she unconcernedly rolled to her back, and sat up. I paused when I saw that her posture and body language didn’t indicate that she was about to attempt running off again (and her ankles were bound, anyway) — however, just in case, I thrust one foot in front of me and stayed all wound up, ready to spring, the bolas in hand. 

“Bolas? Really?” she snorted, indicating her ankles. “You know, _guapo,_ if you wanted to tie me up, all you had to do was ask.” 

I stared for a second. 

“Well. Glad to know we’re on the same page with regard to consent,” I said, recovering. “Now tell me for real, Tarantula, or whoever — who _are_ you?” 

She smiled. “You _still_ haven’t figured it out?” 

I looked over my shoulder when her gaze shifted. Red and blue lights a _ways_ off, only visible when blinking off the rain through the trunks of the trees, and the recognizable pale bobbing of flashlights, by my figuring on the beach that I had chased the girl from. 

Cops, likely my own coworkers, and they _surely_ had found the body on the sand. 

“Better run along,” the girl said, inclining her head in a gesture that _again_ rang a bell. “Considering it’s your boss lying dead on the beach back there and it won’t pay to be caught in the area. By the way, _I’m_ the one who tipped off the police… the same ones you rub elbows with on a daily basis, Corporal Grayson.” 

My stomach about _fell_ out of my body along with my jaw off my face. I couldn’t speak — not even when she rose and casually tossed the bolas to the ground by where I knelt. I didn’t even see her get them off, and I still have no idea _how_ she did it. 

“So tell me, _cariño,”_ she said triumphantly, placing a hand on her hip, “still think that FBI stands for Fabulous But Incompetent?” 

If my jaw had landed in my lap, it was somewhere in the mud now as I _finally_ connected the dots. A grin spread across Catalina’s masked face, and then, just like that, she was off down the trail, rapidly putting distance between us and immediately darting into the cover of the trees to deter me lobbing the bolas at her again. 

I leapt to my feet. Not only had I just learned that my identity was in the hands of a high-profile acquaintance that had just left a body on the beach, but that my _boss_ apparently was dead — _murdered._ And had _she_ done it? Or just been charged with the disposal (and in that case, why leave the body and call the cops?) Or had she come across the body and her find led her to involve the authorities — i.e. pursue justice? 

And did she mean Redhorn, which carried with it its own host of terrible ramifications, or, _shit —_ did she mean Amy? 

On the trail, about to give chase, I halted before I could start pursuit. I realized I had to let Tarantula — _Catalina Flores_ — go. The implications of her having my identity were _beyond_ a disaster, and heavy as _hell_ on the dis, but I had no choice — I’d just have to trust her not to flap her gums to anyone and confront her later. Amy, for all she’s my superior, is my _friend._ Fuck my own security. I _had_ to be sure she was okay. 

_Stay whelmed, Boy Wonder,_ I told myself, _get traught and take it one thing at a time —_

I moved hastily through the overgrown forest to the overhang at the treeline, where I could see the beach and the commotion on its surface through the rain. 

And oh, _thank God_ — there was Amy among the officers at the water’s edge, securing the scene. 

I took a breath, and slowly released it, feeling the grip of dread recede as its hold around my chest relaxed. 

But if it wasn’t Amy… 

That meant the body in the tarp was, by all hints, clues, and assumptions, Chief Delmore Redhorn. Oh, Christ, all hell was going to break loose within the department, I thought. And yes, I hated the guy with the fire of a thousand suns, but it wasn’t like I wanted to see him tombed up — and by the horror of murder — either. I utilized the zeroing function on the lenses in my mask, confirming the identity as Redhorn when the tarp was peeled away from the face of the body on the ground. 

_Damn it,_ I thought, my heart sinking. 

Time to leave. Just like Catalina said, it wouldn’t pay to be caught in the area. I’d left my bike, a modified Tomahawk, hidden at the mouth of the woods, maybe three-quarters of a mile off from where I was, and I had to be sure not to draw the attention of the officers below. They weren’t even a few hundred feet away. I backed off, quietly and subtly, hearkening to my training to avoid alerting the cops, then rushed off toward the motorcycle. The responding officers had Redhorn covered for then — I had to find Catalina. 

I walked the bike to the access road that lined the woods, and once well out of earshot, took some time traversing the area, looking for signs or clues. Barely any time had passed, and Catalina had all but vanished into thin air. I spent an interim investigating the overflow of the city’s smaller buildings and neighborhoods, then worked my way deeper into the streets of Blüdhaven. Nada. And the Blüd can be a bit of a maze — full of people, full of buildings, full of streets, full of refuse and leftovers of all types. It’s very easy to be a nobody in this big city, to fade into the background, blend into its teeming, hectic backdrop. 

And Catalina _was_ formerly an FBI agent —for all I was a Batkid and am now a cop, I had to accept that giving me the runaround when she started out with the upper hand in the situation wasn’t necessarily going to be rocket science for her, especially if I hadn’t learned enough about her to calculate her individual habits or MO. And she had somehow pieced together that I, Corporal Richard Grayson, was none other than the vigilante Nightwing (also more flatteringly known as the First Hero of Blüdhaven — and yes, I like that title better, so we’ll go with that one, ha, ha), so she already knew more about me than I did about her. Why, and to what end — who knew. If she was working for Blockbuster, that might explain it — since Desmond and I had begun to overtly and directly butt heads in recent weeks. But then, if so, why say we were on the same side? Unless she infiltrated the Blockbuster Gang, and planned to betray him all along. The list of possibilities was on a line that stretched across the freaking universe. 

Either way, Catalina definitely started out on top in this mess, and having theories didn’t mean I actually knew what her game was. But stage managing me to run around like a loon through the rainy streets of Blüdhaven looking for her might have been part of that game. 

Well, in that case — Bruce always stated patience over time was better than perfection on the first go. (Translation: Work smarter, not harder.) So patience it was, I determined — and it was patience that would turn the tables on her, anyway. Soaked and tired, I turned the bike around, and headed for home to put my workstation to good use. 

I arrived drenched and shivering and chilled to the marrow at sometime before four in the morning, and danged if the first order of business wasn’t to warm the hell up and deal with my seizing, Charley horsing muscles after racing around Blüdhaven like a chicken with its head cut off. I overturned some Epsom salts into a hot bath and about fell with a slippery thump into the tub. My nose was already running, my nostrils stinging and constrictive, my throat achy and lungs much the same. I’d probably signed up for a cold over the course of the week previous, gallivanting on the rooftops most nights and sprinting through the chilly Blüdhaven November air on the job like I did. That night spent playing hero and chasing my own tail in the driving rain finished the job. 

Before starting on my own remote investigation, I sent Barbara a text, figuring she was up working just as I was, to ask if we could postpone her weekly visit to Sunday. Barbara normally comes to the apartment on Saturdays with her dad dropping her off and picking her up (she and I humorously refer to these weeklies as our conjugal visits, a joke that even Jim chuckles goodnaturedly over), but I desperately needed to start scaling the Mt. Nemesis of other pressing issues in front of me, and I didn’t want to get my fiancée involved until I could gauge Catalina better. It was only a matter of time before I got called into the station for a debriefing over Redhorn’s murder, meaning there went what remained of my Saturday, anyway. Not to mention the fact that Babs would rightfully have whole litters of kittens if she caught wind of the fact that some enigmatic might-be vigilante hero, might be remorseless villain had found my civilian identity and run off with it. 

I was saddened at having to forego my weekly visit with my fiancée, given I _really_ look forward to our Saturdays (and they never fail to quiet the annoying doubts about our relationship that niggle at me throughout the week while we’re separated), but it had to be done. 

I groaned as the bath water embraced my half-frozen, shaking form, lulling and pacifying me, easing my sore, exhausted muscles. I was unintentionally dropping off in spite of the situation at hand and my determination to the contrary, the phone nearly slipping from my fingers where my arm dangled out of the tub, just as it buzzed. 

_Sure! Dad says he can take me tomorrow. One of these days he’ll feel comfortable letting me take public transit. :P (Annnnd monkeys also might fly out my butt.) XD What is it with cops and paranoia? ...Don’t answer that. Anyhow, is everything okay?_

I smiled, and although I knew I risked the health and safety of my smartphone texting in a tub full of water, I replied. 

_Remains to be seen… There’s a serious situation that’s got a lot of carryover into tomorrow. (Errrr, today. #fail) Need to look into it from the vantage points of BOTH jobs._

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes as I waited for her to text. Lying there in the tub, my surroundings at last slowing down and leaving room for my brain to actually process everything that had just transpired, the events of that night barrelled up and overtook me like a coordinated rugby team of Blockbuster-sized brutes. My heart accelerated uncomfortably in my chest, sending a sick, shivering feeling down into my gut and up into my throat. I just couldn’t stop seeing the pitiable, exanimate body of Chief Redhorn under the tarp. 

I heaved a sigh, and opened my eyes. The ceiling was patched with the sight of Redhorn’s lifeless face, just as the backs of my eyelids were. You _do,_ to some degree, get used to violence and death on the job (both jobs — law enforcement _and_ capes), but it always packs an especially hard punch when it’s someone you personally know, even if you’re not fond of the person in question. Professional distancing for me has a finite window, usually limited to an actual crime scene, work day, or night on the rooftops. The emotions all too often catch up with me later when I’m home alone, and it’s then I can’t get out on the streets as Nightwing or Officer Grayson fast enough. (What a cycle. Dinah’s going to have a field day if I sit down and talk to her any time soon.) I sank into the water, inhaling the steaming air, letting it soothe my burning lungs and raw, runny nostrils. 

There was a _buzz._ I checked my phone. 

From Babs: _Your big B? Dad just told me. :-/ He heard it over the bands._

I replied, _Yeah. :-( Big sitch, much problem._

_I’ll say. You okay?_

_Yeah, I’ll get there, babe,_ I answered. _We’ll talk, though. I have some theories — going to spend the day following up. Before I get started on that, though, I gotta thaw out after getting caught in the rain. :P Can’t do much if I’m frozen in place like Frosty the Snowman._ (I chased that with a snowman emoji and a raincloud.) 

Babs sent, _In that case, we’ll def talk. But first… Are you in the tub…? DON’T FALL ASLEEP IN THE TUB!_

I laughed out loud. I have a tendency to abuse Epsom salts to make up for how much I abuse my body, and since these soaks habitually come after Nightwing work, I pass out in the bathtub most nights. It’s only when the water goes cold and wakes me up that I put my bed to use. I’m going to wake up dead of drowning one of these days. 

_Kaldur will save me :P,_ I sent. 

_Now there’s a slash-fic waiting to happen,_ she replied. _Anyway, can I help?_

_Maybe. I’ll keep you posted. <3 In the meantime, I’m going to defrost, then get to work. Love you. _

_Love you more, stud. <3_

I pulled my tolerably warmed body from the tub to towel off and wrap up in a fleece blanket. I got some coffee going while I started in on the search for Catalina’s whereabouts. The obvious venue, and generally the most successful one in my experience, was to find her residential address, and branch out from there. The one on her license was out of date (sigh), and other than that, I couldn’t find any sort of public or private record of bill pay in Catalina’s name. Frankly, I wasn’t about to just call Mat and ask him for it — I’m an engaged man and asking for the residential address of a beautiful woman was sure to lift some eyebrows, in particular those of the protective _hermano mayor._

But the thought gave me an idea. Lobbing an apology Mateo’s way into the universe, I steered my search in his direction, and turned up a residence that he didn’t live at, but paid utilities for. Promising, I figured, and then set to connecting Catalina to it. 

I ended up exploiting her ISP using an alternate version of Shellshock on a public webserver with private subnet access (I know, naughty, naughty.) A couple looks at the DNS history led me right to the account she accessed, which, upon further sleuthing, tied billing information to Mat’s name. 

Looking into the address itself, I found it was formerly the property of Alejandro and Esperanza Flores — none other than her and Mat’s late parents (although, according to records, there apparently is a Jaime Flores, as well.) They had left the house to the eldest Flores child. 

Bingo. And FBI is _still_ Fabulous But Incompetent. It was extremely safe to assume that Catalina was living in their childhood home with Mateo paying the utilities and property taxes. On surface glance, I figured Catalina resigned from the Bureau to come home to live in their childhood house until she got back on her feet, with Mat happy to help her along. 

(I doubted that Mateo’s idea of his little sister getting back on her feet included potentially violent secret vigilante identities. But far be it from me to let the Cat out of the bag — ha, ha. At least, not until I knew the situation.) 

Onto Step Two, then. I pounded some coffee, hurriedly dressed in jeans and a _Dresden Files_ tee, applied some deodorant, and brushed my teeth before grabbing my coat and rushing out the door just as the dawn first appeared in a fatigued, charcoal gray at the edges of the sky. I ran a hand over my hair, tousling it a little, having figured I should probably try to look somewhat presentable in spite of my bedraggled all-nighter, and hopped on my modified Tomahawk (the holographically generated Nightwing colors dispelled by a nifty button in its civilian use — thanks, Lucius!) to venture out to Catalina’s address. I nabbed some more coffee and donuts first — bribes never hurt, and a well-timed joke about a cop with donuts seemed like an ample way to break the ice and get her talking. 

(It hit me very hard on my way to her house that I’m _really_ starting to think like a cop, the mentality fusing with that of Batfamily protege. Zoinks.) 

I’m very familiar with the neighborhood that the house I sought is in — it was the first beat I ever worked when I started at the BPD. It’s so stately and charming an area in spite of its modest median income that no one would ever believe that a home there has a Blüdhaven address. It’s a grid-like network of streets boasting old houses from the early twentieth century or so, lots of red brick and dark wood and Victorian architecture. The trees are enormous and shady, beautiful to look at in their aged majesty, so large and leafy they overwhelm the edifices they surround. One elderly woman still raises an absolutely gorgeous, elaborate garden, her horticultural designs something of a cornerstone in the community and well-loved by the neighborhood’s denizens. The Flores family home was two doors down from this woman. I parked across the street from Mrs. Duly’s garden, casting a glance at it in its somehow beautiful autumn decline beneath the colorful leaves, removed the drink carrier and bag of donuts from the pack strapped to the back of the motorcycle seat, secured the bike, and approached the door to the Flores residence. 

I studied the house as I came up to the porch — a Queen Anne style home, complete with a witch’s cap and porch with columns, the wood painted yellow, the trim white. I found a modest garden that lined the house beneath the lowermost windows. The porch was clean and swept. I studied it a moment as I stood on the porch, getting to know the outside layout of the house and its surroundings just in case this proved to be a lure (and I was armed, prepared for the occasion), then knocked on the door. I breathed deeply to slow my accelerating heartbeat, a rush of anticipation tingling through my core. 

I shifted my weight, lifting my hand to knock again when I didn’t immediately get a reply. Before my knuckles could land, I heard the rattling of the lock. I drew up and squared my shoulders as the door finally cracked open. 

“Well. _Buenos días,_ Tarantula,” I said with a smile by way of greeting as Catalina peered through the opening, only part of her face and one shoulder visible. 

“Hmm,” she said, her features soft in the low light of the overcast early morning. “Well, that took you a lot less time than I thought it would.” She brushed her straying, mussed hair from her face. “You know, _guapo,_ if you decided that you absolutely _had_ to wake me up at this unholy hour after the night I had, you could’ve at least brought me some coffee.” 

I smiled, and hefted the bag of donuts and drink carrier, and being a bit Holmes-like, I had observed how she took hers when I last bought her coffee. Flat white with a double shot. 

“Way ahead of you, Fabulous But Incompetent,” I said. “Coffee _and_ donuts.” 

She lifted a brow. “A cop with donuts — original.” 

“I’m a firm believer in bucking traditions and stereotypes,” I said, and she chuckled. “Can we talk?” 

She smiled, looking nothing but wholly amiable. “I figured you’d want to. Come inside. It’s colder than _una teta de bruja_ out there.” 

She stepped aside, and opened the door the rest of the way. I hastily (and chivalrously) averted my eyes — Catalina was wearing a drapey white Jim Morrison tee and a pair of black boyshort panties, and frankly, nothing else. I was confident she wasn’t even wearing a freaking bra. It was totally _impossible_ not to notice her powerful, shapely legs under that getup. 

_Oh, boy,_ I thought miserably, envying Gannon. _Boy, oh, boy…_

Part of me suspected she planned it that way — she made it clear she knew I’d arrive at some point with a truckload of questions, and being easy on the eyes, she may have hoped I’d get distracted by the fact that she has legs for days. 

But then, maybe she was genuinely just roused from her sleep — and, not actually expecting to find _me_ at her front door so early, simply hadn’t bothered with a pair of pants. It was perfectly possible she assumed the early visitor was a boss, a beau, or heck, the milkman, because why not? And honestly, I don’t know a girl on earth who would bother with pants and a bra if the knock on the door was just the post guy dropping a box off on her front stoop (not that they habitually drop off boxes before seven on a Saturday morning, but whatever.) And maybe she just wasn’t all that body conscious. 

The latter theories were supported when she unhurriedly swiped an enormous hooded sweatshirt from where it hung on a hook in the entryway and pulled it over her head. The hem nearly reached her knees — reasonably modest, although it didn’t prevent me getting an inadvertent good look at the dimples in her back above the elastic of her boyshorts before the sweatshirt came down. I gritted my teeth and followed her into the kitchen. 

(I sound like a cad. Listen, it’s no one’s fault, but I haven’t gotten properly laid in a really long time for various slightly unfair, totally self-imposed reasons. Being chronically horny and a little backed up means I’m annoyingly oversensitive to visual cues — something like Pavlov’s dog.) 

She sat down at the little round wooden table, and gestured at me to do the same. I subtly observed her as she pulled her knees up under the hem of the sweatshirt, like a child, and frankly looking an awful lot like Roselyn Sanchez and Jessica Alba’s love offspring. The house was warm, _too_ warm by my current standards, having adjusted to a shoebox apartment with a weak heater over the last years. I shrugged out of my coat, and set the coffee and bag of donuts on the table. 

“So what gifts did you bring me, _cariño?”_ Catalina asked, and yawned. “And if you laced everything with sodium pentathol, there was no need, since I’m not about to consider shaming my brother the DA by lying to a police officer.” 

I smiled. “Well, I’ve decided to operate on a basis of trust today _and_ I’m off duty, so here’s a flat white with a double shot _not_ of sodium pentathol,” I said, sliding it toward her as she nodded approvingly, “and I just bought one of everything at Stan the Donut Man since I actually have no idea what kind of donuts you like. Hopefully there’s _one_ thing in there that’ll cut the mustard for you.” 

“I _do_ have a soft spot for their pineapple fritters,” she said, and dove into the bag with some abandon until she turned up her quarry. She inhaled the pastry’s fragrance appreciatively. “Ah, these are always worth waking up at the asscrack of dawn for…” 

I chuckled at her phrasing. 

“Well, crap,” I said jovially, sitting down. “I _knew_ I should’ve gotten two of those — so happens I’m a pretty devoted fan of Stan’s pineapple fritters, too.” 

She smiled, and obligingly broke the fritter in half. “Everyone in the free world is a devoted fan of Stan’s pineapple fritters.” She extended one half of the donut. “ _Aquí. Para ti. Mi caballero blanco.”_

“ _Gracias,”_ I said, and her smile widened as I took the fritter from her. 

“ _De nada,”_ she replied. 

Well, so far, so good. No tension, no hostility, just ease and amity. I held the donut and her gaze a moment, but didn’t bite (literally or figuratively.) 

“So,” I said, finally setting the half of fritter on a napkin in front of me. “Much as I’d love to pretend this is just a random act of kindness extended my friend’s sister’s way…” 

“You want to know the hows and whys of my finding out about your nighttime tendency to frolic around in cosplay,” she said readily, tearing into the fritter with an equal lack of hesitation. “And whether or not I had something to do with Chief Redhorn.” 

I leaned back, and gestured. 

“B-1, Bingo, Miss Flores, and the floor is yours,” I said evenly. 

“Well, first of all, rest assured that I don’t have any intention of sharing the news about your double life with anyone,” she told me. “There’s nothing in it for me to spill the beans, _chulo,_ and I’ll admit to being a little more self-serving these days. And as for how and why… Well, I’m not giving away my secrets — _lo siento_ — so let’s just call it something of an accident that led me to confirm your identity for the sake of my own curiosity. And that’s doable for _me,_ at least, being Fabulous But Incompetent and everything. So you can relax.” 

“I’d love to trust you on that, Cat, but I don’t really see myself relaxing any time soon — I’m going to have to start mainlining Gaviscon after all the heartburn this whole thing’s already given me,” I said humorously. 

“ _Pobrecito,”_ she said, and pointed at the top of the refrigerator. “The Tums are over there.” She paused. “Speaking of that, you don’t sound so good, _guapo._ You okay?” 

I chuffed a laugh. “Just a cold coming on.” 

“Speaking of, there’s Vick’s over there with those Tums.” 

I shook my head. “I’ll live, but thanks.” 

“Don’t be silly.” She rose, and approached the fridge. She shuffled the little bottles and boxes on its top about for a moment. I subtly wiped my nose on the back of my hand and hoped she wouldn’t notice. I’d forgotten to bring a tissue packet. 

When she returned, she plunked a few packets of Zicam, a bottle of Vick’s, tissues, and some tablets (decongestants, it looked like) in front of me. 

“Oh, I appreciate the gesture, Catalina, but you should probably hang onto your meds — it _is_ flu season,” I told her. 

“Take it all, _cariño,”_ she said, waving a hand. She sat, and drew her knees back up under the sweatshirt hem. “You need it more than I do.” 

I smiled, grateful. 

“Well, thanks a lot — it's very nice of you to do that. I have some meds at home, but not such a variety.” I lifted my coffee cup, but didn’t sip at it. “Now — not to be rude after you've been so generous, but what about Redhorn? And Blockbuster and this Blockbuster Gang, are you affiliated with them?” 

She cocked her head. 

“Wouldn’t you like to know _why_ first?” she asked. 

“Why what?” 

She held my gaze with her dark eyes. 

“Why Redhorn. Why did I do it. Why was I working for Blockbuster. Why, why, why.” 

The words might not have meant anything — in and of themselves, they weren’t necessarily a confession, but I internally shifted gears, readying for whatever was to come next. 

“Why’s as good a place to start as any,” I said. “So… why? On all counts?” 

There was a spell of quiet as she set down her fritter, and handled her coffee cup. The gray dawnlight through the windows illumined the shiny black of her hair and glowed softly on the apple green of the kitchen walls. Lemons, real ones, not props, rested in a charcoal gray ceramic bowl between us. I liked the place — colorful, inviting, clean. I’ve seen the homes of miscreants and murderers and ne’er-do-wells plenty a time in my day, and they’re often ordinary as can be, but this home hardly brought the words “psycho-killer” to mind — there was a homey energy about the house that I felt quickly comfortable in. 

She gave me something of a wry, smirky look. “Well, a lot of this gets really sordid and uncomfortable, Corporal Grayson, if you want to _really_ get to the marrow of why, here, so I suggest you prepare yourself.” 

I studied her a moment in the wake of those words, reading her body language, her facial expression, her mien and disposition. 

There was _such_ a sublevel of sorrow beneath that sardonic exterior, such a ponderous sadness in her eyes — years and years of it, so _much_ of it that it was as much a part of them as the rich, deep espresso color of their irises. Something told me that she _wanted_ to give me all of the details, however sordid and uncomfortable they might have been — wanted to _unload_ to someone. 

“I’m a cop in Blüdhaven,” I told her gently. “Tame and comfortable are unknown dimensions to me. If you don’t want to censor it, you don’t have to.” 

She gazed at me for a long series of moments, her eyes intent on mine, her expression inscrutable. 

“All right then. My whole life story it is. Are you ready for it, Nightwing?” 

“Hit me, Tarantula,” I said congenially. “I’ve got time.” 

She nodded, and settled in her chair. 

“So when I was twenty-one,” she began, and I sat back a little to listen, “I graduated from the criminal justice program at Georgetown. Early, and with honors. Which was… a fairly big deal after being a bit of a wild child in my teen years.” 

“You, a wild child? I’d buy it for a dollar, pulling thirty over on the Spine,” I said, lightening the mood a little to engender further comfort in her sharing her story. 

She chuckled a bit, but her smile faded quickly. “I chose criminal justice because that wild streak started thanks to some fatass _gabacho_ neighborhood watchman shooting and killing my younger brother Jaime, claiming he thought he was some gang member who was going to shoot up his family. Never mind the bastard saw us almost every day.” 

My heart guttered. “Oh, Jesus.” 

“Yeah. _El Jesucristo._ Jaime was thirteen years old. The only gun he carried was the one for his vintage NES that he liked to play old school _Duck Hunt_ on. He was on his way to a friend’s house to play that same stupid ancient video game he liked so much and do his homework. And that motherfucker shot him in cold blood — just because he didn’t like our family living in his neighborhood.” She shook her head. “The fake gun was just an excuse.” 

I softened, and leaned toward her a little. 

“So what happened?” I asked. 

She shook her head. “What could we do? There wasn’t _anything_ we could do, my mom and dad were illegals, and that neighborhood watchman knew it, so…” She shook her head. “The _cabrón_ had a lot more money than _mi papa,_ and he had a lot of friends in the police department — he lawyered up, used all his cop connections, threatened my parents with Immigration, and ended up getting so far off the hook it was like he never held a gun at all. All he got was a few hours of community service.” 

I slowly shook my head. “God, Catalina.” 

She nodded. “Dick, Jaime… was like _my_ baby. My mom worked long hours and I practically raised him, you know? Losing him was…” She trailed off, and sighed. “It was bad. Just so bad. I got into drugs and alcohol to try to deal with it, partying… you name it, I did it or at least tried it once.” 

“How old were you, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“Fifteen.” 

I nodded, and stayed quiet, silently inviting her to keep speaking. It was anyone’s guess as to how this all led up to Redhorn, but in my experience, even the longest, most seemingly tangential stories have a tendency to come together cohesively by the end. And again, it seemed as though she _wanted_ to tell her tale, to share it, ease the burden of it. So I listened. 

“I kept my grades and attendance at school up,” she continued, “just because I didn’t want my mom or dad or especially Mateo to be aware of what I was up to, but let me tell you, _guapo —_ I had quite the life outside my bedroom window.” 

There was another beat as she sipped at her coffee a bit, fiddling a moment with the lid. I didn’t touch mine. 

“Anyway, I went on a real bad bender one weekend with my best girlfriend my junior year of high school — got in the car with her driving, and she wrecked real bad, _las borrachas_ we were and everything. She died instantly and the car went up like a fireball.” 

“Jesus, Cat,” I murmured. “…I’m sorry.” 

She nodded. “Yeah, _yo, también._ I miss Viviana every day, you know? She was a nice girl, only partied once in a while, just… that one night was all it took.” 

“That’s often all it takes,” I said. “Sometimes it’s a matter of a second, even. And next thing you know, the whole world is completely upside down.” 

She smiled wanly at me. “I know you know all about that, _cariño.”_

I nodded. “Were you hurt?” 

She surprised me when she reached over, and briefly clasped my fingers. 

“You’re kind, _guapo,”_ she said. “I appreciate that. I _was_ hurt, but not real badly, all things considered.” She paused, and shifted her knee so she could tap the left side of her chest. “Hurt here most of all. I survived in the end because a Good Samaritan on the freeway pulled me out of the burning car before I could go up with it. _Un angel de dios.”_

“ _Claro,”_ I concurred. 

“So… when I woke up in the hospital, I realized I had one of two choices, kind of like an epiphany — I could keep going down the path I was on, destroying myself even after that _hijo de puta_ destroyed me when he took _mi hermanito_ … or I could get _off_ that path, and follow one where I could go after bad guys like him and lock them up. That’s when I decided I wanted to go into criminal justice. I went all in on school and joined SADD.” 

I was utterly intent by then, listening. She and I were shaping up to have a lot more in common than I originally thought. 

“So as I went through school at Georgetown,” she said, “I realized that I wasn’t a fan of general law enforcement, _sin ofender —”_

“None taken,” I assured her. 

“And really, investigation piqued my interest the most in the end, since I’m something of a curious person — hence, I decided to go for the FBI when I graduated. And… oh, _mi amigo,_ I loved it. Every _second_ of it, I loved. I loved the academy, the training, the field work — _everything_. It was also in the FBI that I met the man who would _really_ change the course of my life, for good _and_ bad.” She sighed. “Not that the bad was his fault.” 

I nodded, finally starting in on my coffee, by then gone from hot to warm. 

“His name was Jonathan Law — secretly, and maybe more notably, the Tarantula.” 

Everything clicked into place in that moment, and I gave one slow, comprehending nod. 

“So that explains your alias,” I said, and sobered. The Tarantula had been listed as murdered some years before, and none other than Chief Redhorn had been implicated in the death of Jonathan Law. He’d been cleared of the charges, but the incident was on my radar as I clandestinely worked against my (now almost definitely) corrupt former boss. 

“Mm-hmm.” She rested her chin on her knees. “John and I were partners in the Bureau by day, _guapo,_ but more than that, too. He was one of the few people other than my brothers and Viviana who really understood me — he was my mentor, my best friend, my partner, my confidant, my cheerleader, and… _mi amante, también.”_ She paused. “You know what happened to him, I’m guessing.” 

“I do, but… not in much detail,” I admitted. “I was on hiatus from Young Justice at the time, so I didn’t get anything about his passing outside of a notification in an email bulletin. I do know, working at the BPD… that Redhorn was implicated in his death. I didn’t know you were partners.” 

She nodded. “I’m a footnote in that extremely altered file at the very best.” 

A feeling of deep, deep regret came over me as I gazed at Catalina. I thought I’d suffered a lot of visits from Godfather Death and Uncle Injustice in my day — but at least two of my lost loved ones were returned to me, one through mistaken belief, the other through a bizarre miracle. They came back, Wally and Jason. And Zucco was rotting away the rest of his life in the pen — justice served. But the girl across from me, I knew, wouldn’t be so lucky. Her loved ones were gone for good, and their killers were free as birds. 

“So… It was four years ago. Four years and three months. And five days. And… seven hours?” She feebly chuckled, and shook her head. “Not that I’ve kept track. John and I were sent to Blüdhaven to investigate the BPD and mafia activity in the city after a team of investigative journalists and bloggers turned up murdered, every member of this cooperative group within days of each other. Rumors were floating around that the Blüdhaven Chief of Police, none other than your Delmore Redhorn, was facilitating the trafficking of contraband through the station and some of the neighborhoods surrounding. Serious contraband, too — really hard drugs, some of them of alien origin, extraterrestrial and sanctioned weaponry and genetic material, illegal robotics, controlled tech, so on. The investigative journalists turned up some evidence that he worked with one of the mob families in the Blüd to run these goods through areas under his jurisdiction, and in return, everyone involved in the ring enjoyed some pretty appealing benefits — nice houses, wads of money, and best yet, immunity from being accused of wrongdoing, since the mafia branch that he was working with had so many public officials in their corner. So to stop exposure, that entire team was killed. Couldn’t have anyone spilling the beans, now, could they — it was a comfortable little agreement, after all. In the end, the Feds were called in to look into it, namely John and me.” 

I was completely silent, listening hard. I’d heard about this same alleged racket just before I started work at the BPD. It was reduced to whispers and rumors throughout my first year or so on the force — there wasn’t a scrap of hard evidence, all of it dismissed into something like a bad dream. It put Redhorn way up there on my to-do list, though, as I worked with Amy and later Mateo to start cleaning up the filthy BPD. As an aside, I was very lucky to be assigned to work with someone like Gannon as my partner. 

“We went to Blüdhaven just after John had started training me in vigilante work,” Cat went on, “and let me just say, finding out he was the Tarantula was so exciting, _chulo —_ imagine me discovering my secret lover and partner was none other than a hero I was a _hopeless_ fangirl for. You know a part of me always wanted to be just like you Leaguers, donning a cool costume and saving the world? I thought it would be such a good way to honor both Jaime _and_ Viviana. So I _begged_ him to train me, just begged him, until he finally agreed.” She snorted. “Okay, I say finally, but it really didn’t take much to get him to agree.” 

I chuckled. 

“So it became our goal to work both as heroes and agents together, protect the world by day, save it by night. Sounds cheesy, but it worked very well for us.” A wistful look came over her. “And if I thought I loved my work with the Bureau… God, I loved heroism even more. Speaking of cheesy, and you’re probably going to think I’m crazy when I say this, but I swear I could _feel_ Jaime and Viv with me every night I went out on the streets with John. I _knew_ they could see what I did, and that they were with me every second.” 

I shook my head. “Doesn’t sound crazy at all. I feel the same way about my family.” 

She smiled, then turned her focus to the table. “Investigating something so high-level as all that scandal with Redhorn would require a lot of attention, though, so we figured we’d have to forego the hero lessons for a while — I didn’t even have an alias yet, just a mask and some lightly armored workout clothes. And the hiatus was just as well, because we found out just before we left Washington that I was pregnant.” 

Again, my heart sank. 

“Really,” I murmured. 

“Really.” 

I was pin-drop quiet, and listened still harder. 

“But no big deal, we figured — it was just investigative work. It wouldn’t get too dangerous, right? _Claro que no._ And it all seemed so easy — we assumed it would take two weeks tops and we’d be heading back to Washington, the heroes who put a crooked police chief away, all fat and happy and ready to start a shiny new life together. Especially with Mateo working as the assistant DA at the time, you know?” She was quiet a moment. “ _Dios mío,_ I was so excited. Just so happy. Jonathan was, too. He was a little older than me, ready for children, ready for marriage. We kept everything quiet, but decided to tie the knot after we finished up in Blüdhaven, and then figured I’d take a break for a while to focus on the baby and then go back to work when I was ready. A good plan, we thought.” 

Another long pause. 

“Maybe I was too excited. Maybe I was thinking too much about _life_ when I should have been thinking about work. Maybe I was too focused on John as my lover and fiancé, not as my partner and coworker. Maybe I didn’t have enough of a professional approach to the case, with my mind a million miles away as it was.” She looked up at the ceiling. “I think about this all the time, what I might have done differently, what I might change if I had it to do all over again… just… all the time.” 

“I think anyone who loses a loved one does,” I told her consolingly. “But you can’t dwell on it, Cat — what you might have done differently, or all the what-ifs. You’ll drive yourself crazy.” 

She smiled at me. “Haven’t I? Good Lord, _cariño,_ look at me. I’m almost thirty and I live in my parents’ house with Mateo paying my bills. The money I _have_ been making I got being a gofer for asshole-bastard Blockbuster, most of the time ignoring my own goal. And here I wanted to be a vigilante like _you —_ not some amateur has-been FBI transplant working for a crime lord because he was the only option.” 

I reached over and laid a hand briefly on her wrist. “Listen, Catalina. You don’t need to be ashamed over how you live, especially not after the life you’ve had. And for what it’s worth — you’re still standing after everything, and I think that speaks volumes. Really, I do.” I sat back. “And I haven’t even heard the whole story yet.” 

“You’re sweet, _guapo,”_ she said, and took a breath. Releasing it, she continued. “Long story short… Redhorn murdered John when our investigation started to gain traction — _real_ traction.” Slowly, she lowered her knees, and then drew the hem of her sweatshirt and tee up. There was a distinct, puckered scar, fading, but still red, distinctly a gunshot wound, at her lower external oblique. “Things heated up, and the bastard ambushed us in the blind spot of a goddamn public parking lot. He shot John in the chest first. Then he shot me as I was going for my weapon and took off — just left us for dead. I had to crawl to my cell phone to call for help.” She shook her head. “I watched John bleed to death, waiting for the ambulance.” 

“Oh, Christ,” I murmured, noting the positioning of the scar before she lowered her top and hiked her knees back up. 

“Anyway… it seems like it should have been cut and dry, right? Like my account of things should have finished the job on Redhorn? Guess what, _cariño._ It didn’t. The asshole DA at the time _protected_ him. Those crooked pocket cops of his protected him. Even _forensics_ protected him — if I had to guess, he threw his mob money at them, or they were just all in league together from the get-go. The fucking Redhorn Club or whatever. The goddamn case didn’t even come to charges, Dick. And I just wound up dismissed as a poor, sad, confused lunatic with PTSD, while that bastard sat on his throne at the BPD, pretending to feel _sorry_ for me — you know he made a public apology for my loss on the news after it all happened? Some unbelievable mound of horseshit about what a sad misunderstanding it was and how we were in the wrong place at the wrong time and what a shame. I’d say at least he left my name out of it, like Mat had asked the media to, but…” She snorted. “He also ensured my name was left out of the case file minus in teeny, tiny print and passing. Disgusting. _Asqueroso._ I’ve never been so livid. I was still in the hospital with the gunshot wound that he gave me, for Christ’s sake, while he’s up there simpering with fake apologies. And here’s the kicker — since Redhorn had all the connections and all the power, just like that neighborhood watchman, he walked away from his crimes with no penalty. There was no justice, Dick. None. Either time. My brother and my partner were murdered and their killers walked free both times.” 

I felt _sick_ by then — nauseous, the symptoms of my cold amplified. “Jesus.” 

“And within a week of losing John, I had a miscarriage in the hospital.” 

My gut, already churning, declined. “Oh, Cat, I’m sorry.” 

She stared at the surface of the table, and nodded. “In the end… I resigned from the Bureau. I didn’t want to be part of an institution that couldn’t protect its own or have anything to do with a system that continually lets things like this happen. I decided that I was going to seek justice my own way — and I took on the mantle of John’s alter-ego to do it.” She gave me a piercing look, one burning with the hot, low-sparking flame of an old, patient, abiding anger. “So if you want to know — yes. I did it. I killed Delmore Redhorn. It felt _good_ when I did it. I’m not sorry I did it. And I joined with Blockbuster to see it done, because as you know, there’s a war in your own department — you have Blockbuster’s cops, and you have Redhorn’s cops, and they’ve all fought for control of the BPD for years now. And Roland wanted Redhorn dead, just as I did — maybe for different reasons, but it didn’t matter. He had the resources to see it done, so the Blockbuster Gang it was. I didn’t care who I aligned with if it meant Redhorn would pay for what he did in the end.” She glared. “And he _did_ pay. And I’ll ship my damn self off to jail for it with pride, so if that’s what you’re here to do, by all means. Cuff me, Corporal Grayson. I won’t even resist.” 

“…Does Mat know?” I asked, my tone placid. 

“No,” she said bluntly. “Mat’s _never_ known about this. He doesn’t know about Tarantula, the fact that I worked with Blockbuster, none of it. He just thinks I’m here to figure out what I’m going to do with the rest of my life after more than four years of recuperating and moping and wasting my inheritance money. And by the way, for as long as my brother worked to clean up that Blüdhaven Police Department under Redhorn, he was marked — so all the more reason to get rid of that _hijo de puta.”_

I was silent for a moment, letting all of this sink in. 

No one who had seen even _one_ of the horrors that Catalina Flores had should have been so much as standing, I thought, gazing at her across the table. I could see the very real emotion that shrouded her in a perceptible veil, and just as clearly I could see the pure _resilience_ that withstood it. And if there’s one Batfamily skill that police work has honed to a knife’s edge in me, it’s picking out the reek of even the tiniest falsehood in piles of truths — much as a shark catches the minutest scent of blood in miles of ocean. And I believed Catalina a hundred percent. 

And I couldn’t help but feel a little incredulous as I eyed her where she sat across from me — this was a truly indomitable woman, I thought, worthy of respect, not repulsion. I could never condone what she had done to Redhorn, never — it was a deplorable crime, and arguably a preventable one, but then, who was I to judge, really? Hadn’t I fantasized about a similar end for Fats Zucco more than once? And that bastard went to jail — again, justice was _served_ in his case. And I knew Bruce had endlessly envisaged the same with regard to his parents’ killer; also that Tim was no exception. Catalina’s resilience and levity in the face of all the unspeakable things she’d endured were a powerful testament to her strength and her fighting spirit. 

This girl and I were two sides of the same coin, I thought, kindred spirits, even. I had been lucky to have Bruce — without him, my life might have turned out very, very differently. And I’ve considered that very thing times innumerable over the last fifteen years, since Bruce took me in and safeguarded me from what could easily have been a tragic and wasted existence in the wake of so much heartbreak and grief. 

Catalina had Mateo, I knew, but my own search had revealed that her parents died before she would have finished her FBI training — her father of a heart attack, and her mother of a stroke shortly thereafter. Her social media appeared to be a bit lackluster on passing glance, to say the least, when I peeked into it like a creep-o, trying to turn her up. She had lost _so much_ — and very little had appeared to replace it. Roland Desmond was a pretty pathetic stand-in for Jonathan Law, I can tell you that much. 

I had entered her house anticipating that I might very well end the interlude by reading her her rights and leaving with her in cuffs to turn her over to Amy immediately after. But sitting at her kitchen table, having listened to her story, a whole new world of understanding regarding the situation opened up — and along with it, I had a significant, abrupt, and irreversible change of heart. And a pretty tremendous idea. 

“Well,” I said finally, my tone somber and heavy, “I can see why you did what you did. I knew Redhorn was bad going in. But… he was worse than I thought. A _lot_ worse.” 

She nodded. 

“So… even if I don’t agree with what you did, what path you took,” I said, “I can understand it. I can.” 

She was quiet a moment. 

“Well, let me ask you something, Corporal Grayson,” she said. “If you insist on disagreeing… Have you used your weapon in the line of duty?” 

I nodded. “Yes.” 

“And did you kill the people you used it on?” 

“No,” I replied honestly. “I’ve used my weapon, but never fatally.” 

“How is that possible?” 

“It’s one area of Bat training that’s really proven a huge benefit in my current line of work. Marksmanship, I mean. I can thankfully land a shot where I want it to go, and generally that somewhere is non-lethal.” 

She surprised me when she smiled. “Well, there goes my argument. You _would_ shoot to disable, not to kill, and be _able_ to. You Boy Scout.” 

“If you say so,” I said, and smiled back. “By the way, I don’t _like_ using my weapon. I avoid it unless I’m actually getting shot at first.” 

“And there our ideologies differ,” she said lightly. “So… are you going to cuff me and bring me in? I’d recommend you not use your bolas — they’ll cause trouble for you. Not exactly standard BPD-issue restraints.” 

Right then, my phone buzzed. Checking it, I saw I had a message from Amy. 

_Mandatory debriefing at the station in thirty,_ it read. I looked up at Cat. 

“Well, gotta work,” I said. “After the mess you made on the beach and everything last night.” 

“You didn’t answer my question, _guapo.”_

I smiled. “To answer your question, Catalina — no. I’m not going to cuff you and bring you in. I’m not even going to implicate you or mention your name.” 

“Oh?” She gave me a skeptical look. “And why not?” 

“Because I have a better idea,” I told her, “or at least, _I_ think it’s a better idea. You said you wanted to be a vigilante like me, right? Or I guess rather… be aligned with the type of vigilantism I ascribe to?” 

She nodded. 

“Okay. Then how would you feel about partnering up with me? Working together? Leaving Blockbuster behind and trying something new, something you’ve just said you’d rather be doing?” 

She gave me an unreadable expression. “In exchange for what?” 

“In exchange for nothing,” I stated. “Except maybe for not killing anyone from here on. Cat, I’m thinking about all the parties involved here — you were innocent, just like John was, just like Jaime was. And okay, maybe you’re not so innocent regarding Redhorn, but… Look. It’s guilty with like, a million shades of gray. You did a bad thing. It does _not_ mean you’re a bad person. Not by any stretch. And… you were driven into a corner, and it was in that corner you made your decision. I just don’t see how sending you to jail is going to do you any sort of good, or how it’s even anywhere within the realm of fair or a case of justice served in this situation.” 

She leaned back a little, and finished off her coffee. 

“And what about Redhorn?” she said. “You know, if the fact that you knew I did it and you protected me ever comes back to you, you’ll be in a world of hurt with your career. And just your life in general.” 

“Well, I’ll chew that food if and when I have to,” I said. “In the meantime, I’d prefer to focus on what’s right in front of me, and that’s keeping you out of the clink, Catalina Flores.” 

Her eyes bored into mine, dark and inscrutable. “Why?” 

“Because you’re my friend,” I said, taking the plunge, “even if I don’t know you that well. And Mat’s my friend. And I protect my friends. Even when they do things I don’t always agree with.” 

She half-smiled even as a touch of rose bloomed in her cheeks. 

“So what do you say, Tarantula?” I asked. “Partners?” 

“You know I never finished my training with John,” she said. “And I wouldn’t say Blockbuster’s done anything to complete it, either.” 

I smiled. “Then I’ll train you. You can be my first legit protégé. What do you think?” 

Her half-smile spread into a full one, and then into a grin. 

“I think it’s a deal — and believe it or not, I think I might be excited by this new development,” she said, and with that, we clasped hands in a quick grip and shake. “Now. Better mosey, _profesor,_ or your new boss is going to wonder where you are and ask questions.” 

“Can’t have that,” I said, “partners in crime we are, and everything. Meet me at the docks at nine tonight and we’ll get started?” 

“I’ll be there,” she said. 

I left her house and headed to the station with an unexpected sense of excitement, and dare I admit it — a pretty stupid grin on my face in spite of everything. 

xxxxx 

And now, here we are — having left the docks together on the Tomahawk to pursue our first night as mentor/student/partners. The debriefing at the station earlier was perfunctory enough, just a matter of Amy calling all of us in to let us know she wanted everyone in the BPD playing in this particular sandbox and to dole out more specific assignments. I doubt they’ll tie the crime to Cat in the end — she _is_ formerly of the FBI, and she covered her tracks admirably well. 

I can’t lie — there is a ponderous undercurrent of guilt over my own deceit, and the fact I am effectively concealing a murderer from my superiors and my department as they waste resources and time the BPD doesn’t have at the moment on a crime that I could solve with a word. On the flip, however, I made a decision I strongly feel that I can stand by. Everyone deserves a second chance — Cat especially. So stand by my decision and belief, I will. 

Barbara was astonished to hear I’d taken on a protege so suddenly when I video called her this afternoon to tell her the news, but delighted, too, and anxious to hear all about my new trainee and to meet her at the earliest opportunity. (I opted _not_ to let her in on Catalina’s rather major misdeed regarding Redhorn. I feel just as guilty hiding something so serious from Barbara, but to protect Catalina, I have to.) Either way, I’ve resolved to arrange that as soon as possible, and honestly, can’t wait — but I’ll selfishly keep Babs to myself tomorrow, since I’ve missed her and am keen on some one-on-one time with my fiancée. Bringing Catalina on commissioned work for Young Justice and the League is something I’m already looking forward to, as well. Barely an hour into patrol, and not only can I already feel the pure synergy between us, but I’m having a freaking _blast_ — I haven’t enjoyed patrol this much since goofing off with my fellow Bat proteges back in Gotham in the Robin/early Nightwing days. I don’t even notice my cold in spite of the craptastic weather or the fact that I only got a couple of hours of low-quality sleep this afternoon as Cat and I zoom through the streets on the Tomahawk. 

“So!” I shout behind me as I take the bike at a ridiculously violating and exceptionally dangerous (aka super fun) speed down Route 91, grinning when I hear her squeal with delight. “Have you told Blockbuster you quit yet?” 

“No, _cariño,”_ she replies, “but I thought maybe we could drop in on one of his heists and he could find out that way!” 

“Ah, the dramatic approach,” I say, “I like it!” 

“Let’s go find that jerk, then, shall we?” she shouts over the whistling of the wind. 

“We shall indeed, my lady!” I gleefully agree and obligingly speed up, weaving through the traffic and drawing the occasional greeting and/or honk (of varying types — some people honk to say hello, others to express their displeasure. Everyone’s a critic!) As we cruise at now triple digits over the highway, the bike might as well be floating off the ground into the air, my spirits into the sky, my heart into the stratosphere. Catalina tightens her grip on me, and I don’t miss the sound of her laughter over the bellowing wind. I grin, wholly, completely happy for the first time in _months_. 

Yep — everything the doctor ordered. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Hermano mayor: Big brother  
> Buenos dias: Good morning  
> Una teta de bruja: A witch's tit  
> Aqui. Para ti. Mi caballero blanco: Here. For you. My white knight.  
> Gracias, de nada: Thanks, you're welcome  
> Chulo: Cutie (not pimp this time :D)  
> Lo siento: Sorry  
> Pobrecito: Poor baby, poor thing  
> Gabacho: Deragatory/Pejorative for American   
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Cabron: Asshole, bastard  
> Mi papa: My dad  
> Las borrachas: Drunks (f)  
> Yo, tambien: Me, too  
> Un angel de dios: An angel of god  
> Claro: Definitely, for sure  
> Mi hermanito: My little brother  
> Sin ofender: No offense  
> Mi amigo: My friend  
> Mi amante, tambien: My lover, too  
> Claro que no: Of course not  
> Dios mio: My god  
> Asqueroso: Disgusting, sickening  
> Hijo de puta: Son of a bitch


	5. The Passenger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all...
> 
> Hope all's well! And... it's the last boring filler chapter...! HOORAY! <3 (Sorry if this one drags a bit, there was a lot to kind of lay out and develop.) Next week we'll see some real action and events unfolding (finally.) :D All my love, folks!
> 
> As always, Spanish translations at the end. :D
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 5**

If I thought I loved heroism with John, _guapo,_ I love it even more with you — you take a hard job, often a thankless job, often a ball-breaking job, and make it downright _fun._ No fine print, no stipulations — just a difficult, arduous calling turned to a thrilling, delightful hobby. That you are even more of a joy to be around with your effervescent, youthful personality than I ever hoped or thought certainly doesn’t hurt. Watching you passively is one thing — to interact with you is quite another, and _infinitely_ better. I swear, _mi amor,_ I love you more with every passing day. Every passing second, even. 

We found Blockbuster that first night as he oversaw the disposal of some of Redhorn’s former street thugs — he held the poor _cabrónes_ bound in ropes and chains over the water from the girders of the Little Neck Narrows Bridge, dangling them above the churning river, which moves at a furious, bellowing, deadly pace this time of year, thanks to all of the precipitation that tends to fall from September through November. Seasonal Gloom, we locals call it. 

Listening in from an unsighted vantage point led us to learn that Desmond had tied some of Redhorn’s upper level non-BPD goons to stolen merch he wanted to recover — dangerous and high price tag stolen merch (the recovery of which promptly became next-to-tackle on our growing to-do list.) When the thugs refused to cough up, the colossal asshole figured it was time to take the bait fish approach to weasel the location of the goods out of them. 

“Why help them?” I asked, gesturing as you rattled off your game plan. “They were in Redhorn’s pocket and frankly, it’s not like their rap sheets are going to do them any favors even with their boss dead. Just let Blockbuster chuck them and let’s go get the merch before it winds up in the wrong hands. I’d rather give Roland the finger that way, anyway.” 

“Every life is precious and everyone deserves a second chance,” you stated without hesitation, a warm firmness in your voice. “You never know a person’s story, T. You ready?” 

I pouted, but nodded yes. I sensed I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. You were the boss, I supposed, and it was my prerogative to indulge you on occasion. 

You smiled. “All right. Let’s go.” 

So I followed you. You gave _me_ a second chance, after all, just as I figured you would (one point to Catalina, _ding!)_ — and if I was going to work beside you and be found worthy of _staying_ there, I was going to have to adopt your ideologies, as counterintuitive as I might have found them to be. My life hasn’t engendered in me much quality of mercy, _cariño._

Either way, it was _glorious,_ seeing the look on Blockbuster’s infuriated slab-face as we fought to rescue the men that were destined for an unlucky future as chum in the river. Although you protested at first, I went all-in on a face-to-face fight with Roland, banking on my speed and endurance to frustrate and outmaneuver him until you finished up releasing Redhorn’s former goons from their bonds. 

“Hmm. What is this, some form of protest?” Blockbuster queried, to my chagrin hardly breaking a sweat as I darted in and out of his reach, landing blows where I could ( _why_ won’t you let me use my trusty peashooters, _chulo?_ You’re so unfair, but I forgive you.) “I must say, I would love you to share with me the meaning of _this_ little démarche, Tarantula… I knew you were erratic at best when I brought you on, but what purpose could you _possibly_ have in taking up with a creature that is about as contradictory to your personal philosophies as the Bible is to the Necronomicon? My curiosities are piqued. Indulge me.” 

I executed the most arduous backbend of my life (ouch) to avoid his enormous fist, and _knew_ I’d feel it later. But not wanting to look like a wimp in front of my ex-boss and new partner, I sprang back into an upright position with a smile on my face. 

“Well, what can I tell you, Roly-Poly, Nightwing is a lot cuter and a damn sight nicer than you are,” I replied blithely. “You really ought to take a page out of his book one of these days — you’ll keep more people than just your mother around.” 

FYI, Dick, Roland does _not_ like it when I call him Roly-Poly (all the more reason to do it) and he becomes _hilariously_ incensed by jokes about his mother. Having incurred his laughable rage, I darted behind an outcropping of chewed up concrete wall. I was appeased when you returned to my side. 

“Hate to crack the whip when you’re having fun, but the shipment’s on a truck on its way out of the city,” you murmured cheerfully to me. “They’re on the bypass — we’d better get moving.” 

“You got that info already?” I asked, aghast. 

You grinned, devastating in the city lights reflecting in myriad colors on the river below. “Like I said, everyone deserves a second chance! They were very helpful. Anyway, shall we mosey along, my lady? We can deal with Blockbuster later — pretty sure he’ll still be here, still demented and still pissed off tomorrow night. That truck, on the other hand…” 

“ _Sí, sí, mi capitán,”_ I said. “ _Vamos.”_

And mosey we did — with the aid of combined, well-aimed, and exceptionally powerful smoke and stun grenades. Before Blockbuster knew what hit him, we were zooming through Blüdhaven to intercept the truck on the Tomahawk, both of us cackling triumphantly as we left him behind. _Buena suerta_ catching us, Blockbuster, mammoth prick! 

Intercepting the truck is another story, of course, but it was a truly _incredible_ experience, _cariño_ — a rush unlike any other, and an event that brought me immediately into the public eye as your protégé. _¡Qué emocionante!_ To think there were bystanders with their smartphones handy as we wrangled the thugs in the truck and the security detail surrounding — I was so focused on you and fighting by your side that I failed to notice all of the fascinated onlookers. But then, we _did_ catch the truck before it left the city, heading it off onto main roads away from the highway. Of course pedestrian traffic continued to mill about, in the right place at the right time. And with such a delightful display, personal safety never occurred to them (sometimes that aspect of heroism can get obnoxious. Get a clue, _gentes estúpidos._ Safety _not_ guaranteed when spectating urban battlegrounds and on your own heads be it if you get nailed in the crossfire.) 

And oh, _guapo —_ did we ever give the public quite the show. It was astonishing and utterly enrapturing to me how wonderfully in sync we were, especially given we were virgins to each other in this mentorship, and had very little clue as to how the other worked and fought. I can only glean so much from just watching you, an arbitrary spectator on the sidelines. But how _well_ we worked together regardless of our newness, how amazingly we listened to and communicated with one another! We may as well have been working together for _years,_ such a well-oiled machine we were. I knew I loved you from the moment you came to my window — by the end of that first evening, I’d have _died_ for you, and without a second thought. 

That first night was surreal — just the perfect waking landscape of the most delicious, beautiful dream. I could feel this new beginning as it tingled to life in my molecules, suffusing my body and spirit with a fresh, revitalized zest for living and a pure, raw _joy._ Dropping the news on Blockbuster and incurring his slab-faced fury in so dramatic a fashion in favor of running with you, simply the most glorious creature on earth, was something I never even realized I waited with such shivering anticipation for — and now, _cariño,_ it had fallen on me, and what could I do but soak it all in? 

We were ambushed by a blogger, who intercepted us as we finished up our part of the contraband bust. We were both a little breathless (you especially, owing to your cold, _pobrecito)_ , a little exertive, a little sweaty — but clearly flying high as you introduced me to the blogger as your trainee. The kid’s eyes lit up like Christmas Morning — this was a story that would _surely_ make his contributed articles the focal point of the website that he blogged for (titled _Sons of Anarky._ Kids today…) 

“So what made you decide to take on a trainee?” asked the kid, Lonnie Machin _(contributing writer, aspiring Black Hat guru, and pop culture enthusiast!)_ He gestured at the authorities behind us as they worked the scene. “Other than making fast work of a pretty big job?” 

“Just that — I’m getting lazy in my old age,” you said, grinning in your usual easy way, and Lonnie chuckled. “No, more Blüdhaven’s a big city and I’d feel a lot more comfortable if I knew someone I could trust was keeping an eye on it with me.” You threw an arm over my shoulder _(¡hurra por mí!)_ and your grin widened. “And I’d say this lovely lady here’s going to fit the bill pretty perfectly.” 

“I’d say so, going by those crooks in handcuffs over there,” Lonnie laughed, and turned his attention to me. “So… I guess Next Hero to Blüdhaven, what’s your moniker, what can we call you?” 

“You can call me Tarantula, _chico,”_ I replied, smiling ear-to-ear, for the first time in years comfortably seated on Cloud Nine. 

“Oh! As in _the_ Tarantula? Are you taking up that mantle?” asked Lonnie, now even more interested. 

“Yes,” I replied happily. “And I plan to do my predecessor proud.” 

“You will,” you told me (not Lonnie, _me),_ giving me a squeeze. Oh, how I longed to go all in on that tiny, friendly embrace — but it wasn’t time. Not yet. 

Still. I _thrilled_ to feel your body against mine, even for a moment, in all of its buzzing, virile glory. _Dios mío,_ I wondered, would I become one of those creepy stalkers that refused to wash her clothes or take them off because you — _fan my face!_ — touched them? _¡Vaya!_ The very thought made me giggle a bit, but I was struck with an overwhelming pang of loss and sadness when you withdrew from me. It felt as though an analgesic were removed from a point of pain that had gone on for so long that I’d become deadened to it until it was at last assuaged, to have it return with a wallop when the relief was taken away. 

I didn’t need to be disappointed in the brevity of this momentary contact, however — as I have come to learn, you are _quite_ the hugger. My god, Dick. You hug me _all the time._ To say hello, goodbye, good job, thank you, you’re welcome. You hug me on the completion of a workout, your body sweaty and warm to the touch, positively delectable. You hug me when you’re happy. You hug me when you’re sad. You hug me for no good reason. You just _hug —_ a lot. It’s wonderful. 

Honestly, _cariño,_ I love you and your unabashed affectionate nature, enhanced by the fact that you’re presently touch-deprived. I had known that you hug your Wally and Artemis and their children, your godchildren; also that you hug Barbara’s father and of course that you hug her, your fiancée (although, psst… not for much longer!) I had known that you even hug your partner, Gannon. I was overjoyed to learn that you would extend that loving, open-faced tendency my way, and so immediately. I drink in the feeling of your body every time you wrap your capable, gorgeous arms around me, inhale the scent of you, take in your vivacious aura. 

And you are not only a hugger — but just a touchy-feely one in general, the concept of a territorial bubble unknown to you (again, _¡hurra por mí!)_ You sit close to me — so close I can smell your aftershave lotion, feel the vibrancy of your unseen but tangible energy — when we go over routes for patrol, files on the criminals we seek to find and bring to justice, battle stratagems, training plans. And you do the same when we talk, lying flat on our backs on the flats of rooftops, gazing at the sky overhead, after we come off our nights of vigilantism. We talk as though we have all the moments Father Time holds in his vast stores free to us, as though we are the only two people in the world, as though there is nothing in this existence but these rooftops, the sky in its watercolor beauty, and us. Just us. 

You lie so close to me that I can sense your breathing and feel the tingling of warmth from your body, the sparkling of your boundless élan. I long so much to touch you, _guapo — really_ touch you, explore your body with my own, map its landscape with my fingers and commit it to memory, take you inside me, fuse with your energy, share mine with you. But for now, I will accept the trade. Our rooftops and talks. 

And _querido,_ I _live_ for these special pre-dawn talks, the ones just for you and me, that find us in seamless, intimate communion. They are those perfect conversations that just flow like unhindered water, smoothly shifting from one subject to the next, some tranquil and cozy, some heavy and candid, others humorous and full of mirth. The roofs in the safe, close darkness of post-midnight have become our own little peaceful hinterland of flawless connection, untouched and unknown to any other, a sanctuary that guards and secludes us as we get to know each other — reciprocally now. 

You’ve told me all about your family, your mother and how beautiful, patient, and nurturing she was. You told me how you used to read together, which engendered in you an appreciation for books that has kept its hooks in, in spite of the fact that you are a complete spazmoid who is always, _always_ moving and reading is somewhat of a static activity. You would cuddle up to her and read, she to you when you were very little, then you to her as you got older. You did this every night — all the way up until the end. The last book you ever read together was _Maniac MaGee,_ still a favorite of yours _._ In the years after you lost your family, you saw yourself in the title character — a divulgence that made me smile, that you saw yourself in a somewhat nomadic, orphaned child that collected families out of the strangers he met. You can’t smell the scent of a book’s pages without remembering your mother and how the aroma mixed with her perfume, you said. You also told me that for all you enjoy reading, you still don’t read nearly as avidly as your brother Jason, who is never seen without a book in his hand. 

“A street kid that’s a bookworm,” I mused, smiling. “Isn’t that kind of an unusual combination by stereotypical understanding?” 

“ _He’s_ kind of unusual,” you told me fondly. “Kind of an acquired taste, I guess you might say? But he’s one of the best people you’ll ever meet, Catalina, just amazingly loyal and kind and smart and a total _tank_ in a fight. You should meet him sometime.” 

“I’d love to, _guapo,”_ I told you, and gave you a smile. “Although I doubt he’s anywhere near as charming as you.” 

You smiled back at me, your eyes twinkling in the dim light from the streets below. 

“Well, what can I say, _no one_ can stand up to all this,” you said humorously, indicating yourself, and I laughed. “Seriously, though, you might want to reserve that judgment until you actually meet him — Jason is, as my partner says, a ten he plans to net someday.” 

“Why, Dickie,” I said quizzically, rising up on one elbow. “Are you trying to play Cupid with me and your brother?” 

You laughed heartily, and raised your hands. “No, no, no. _Lo prometo._ God, I’d be an actual yenta on a rooftop.” I snickered. “But no, not only would Jason piss in my Cheerios if I ever tried fixing him up with anyone, _including_ your beautiful self, my partner would be totally heartbroken and my youngest brother would probably run for the hills, afraid he was next on my little Emma list.” 

I leaned toward you slightly, all smiles, helplessly tittery and abuzz at the fact that you’d just called me _beautiful._ “So you have two adoptive brothers?” 

You nodded. “Sure do.” 

I settled back. “Tell me about them both, _guapo.”_

You explained your brothers to me, the idiosyncratic, studious, brilliant Tim, the bookish, tough-talking, kindhearted Jason. You detailed the facets of the relationship between your brothers, how Tim is rather separate for all he lived for a time in the manor as your foster father’s legal ward in the wake of his parents’ deaths. I listened, happy to hear your voice, happier still to learn all about the family who mean so much to you. I took in stories of all-night coding and LAN parties with Tim, Dickens festivals and Jim Butcher panels at conventions with Jason, public events and basketball and skiing with famous Bruce Wayne, cooking and _Grantchester_ with Alfred, your _abuelito._

I took my turn on another night and shared memories of Jaime, my _hermanito precioso,_ as I hadn’t done in years and years, and found that it felt _good_ to speak of him. It was cathartic, even — and the ultimate solace was that as my own disclosure moved me to tears, you held me, _querido_. Just held me. No words. No pulling away. No come-ons. Just a long, warm, soothing embrace that mollified every inward ache, every point of pain inside my still broken heart. 

And in the end, I was happy to share my long pent-up memories of my beloved brother with you, to tell you all about our nights spent making caramel popcorn and drinking Surge into the wee hours of the mornings our parents were gone working their graveyard shifts. You listened tirelessly, never once shifting your attention, never once interrupting, never once distracted. I told you all about Viv, too, how we used to sneak out of her father’s house to walk to the twenty-four-hour ice cream shop for milkshakes (and to flirt with the cute twenty-something on the night shift) at two in the morning when I would sleep over. I told you about my hardworking parents, how they toiled to build a life for my brothers and me, and how I sought to honor their backbreaking work. 

You, in turn, told me about your father and how he laid the groundwork for you to become the man you are today, how he taught you the strength, generosity, and compassion you so naturally exhibit. You told me about your uncle’s practical jokes, the close relationship you had with your cousin, your gregarious, fun-loving aunt. You told me about Zitka, the circus elephant with whom you still share a truly special bond. You told me how much you love performing, _feeling_ the ties to your family as you do. You even electively let me in on a secret that only your lovers (or people who implant cameras in your home, _ay, ay!_ ) discover when they peel away your clothes — you wear your mother’s engagement ring and father’s anniversary band on a long chain around your neck, snug beneath your shirt. 

And with everything you tell me, _cariño,_ every secret you share as we rest on the rooftops in our private world, I only love you more, just as I love you more with every passing day. 

Morning comes hatefully, too soon and brazen, the overbearing warden that heralds the twelve-hour prison stretch that keeps us apart while you get a couple of hours of sleep and go about your workday or obligatory Saturday pity visit with your fiancée. These bleak periods separate one blissful blur of hours spent with you from the next, and they do not agree with me, _guapo._ You are not home for me to at least watch you and connect with you via the cameras (with the exception of Saturdays, but then, Babs is with you), and you work so hard and so diligently that I cannot bring myself to disturb you as you go about your work with the BPD. And Sundays… you deserve the peace and reprieve of your Sundays, although I _do_ watch the footage. Contrary to what any recent behavior might indicate, I have _some_ concept of boundaries, _querido —_ I’m not about to devil you every second of every day as you go about a life that I’m not quite an established cornerstone in yet. Even _if_ I feel like asserting my dominance to helpless inanimate objects, kicking cute, cuddly things, or screeching decorative curses into the sky while we are apart. 

And since you began working under Amy Rohrbach, as opposed to that ancient, Nazi pile of shit Redhorn, you’ve mentioned feeling a renewed vigor and dedication to your job, and the joy and gratification you now get from your work is downright infectious — so doubly far be it from me to interfere. You are always bobbing about like a little kid jittering on a sugar high when we meet after your shifts end to run and train before hitting the streets to get down to business. And to see you so happy and fulfilled makes _me_ happy, _cariño._ I love to see you so joyful, so bubbly; particularly after the unending despondency and ennui that you showed before. (Tell me the truth, _mi amor —_ you are grateful to me for turning Redhorn into a piece of Swiss cheese.) 

But it’s not merely your work that has you walking on sunshine, is it…? And oh, _chulo,_ I am _so_ happy to be so pivotal a part of your newfound joy. You’ve said yourself to Barbara more than once that I am “everything the doctor ordered.” And truly, the evidence of the happiness I bring you is plain to see. I can’t help but feel a little proud, and very encouraged — but then, I _knew_ I would make you happy. And _lo prometo, mi amor,_ I will continue to. I will fill your empty spaces, stand beside you, _siempre._ Always. 

I know it sucks to be alone. And you really were, weren’t you, Dick — work-filtered interactions with your partner and one afternoon and evening a week with your fiancée are not sufficient for a social creature like you. You not only crave, but _need_ connection, _need_ contact, _need_ kinship. And you _need_ to be touched — you are such a loving person, _querido_. It is unfair that a person as affectionate and extroverted as you should be so isolated. 

And it’s our time together that’s proven your panacea. _Our_ time. Not merely your improved working environment, not your fiancée who’s responded favorably to your greater cheer — our time. Run, train, patrol the streets while rocking out to Siouxsie and the Banshees, all-night diner takeout. Hugs and sore shoulder massages, first aid to new battle scars. Our rooftops talks. The whole thing an impeccable formula for healing, for _love_. Who would have thought? 

And by the way, I love to run with you, _cariño._ Running with you holds a quality of courtship, as our bodies move in sync beside each other, energies passing in unseen transference between us, all of it without even having to touch. The sport has always been a passion of mine, an intrinsic talent I was born with and have never had to work overly hard at to excel in (I _did_ run for Georgetown, once upon a time, and even forewent a shot at the Olympics in the 5,000 for the FBI Academy.) You mentioned my endurance and speed with a youthful awe and admiration, all but starstruck, the first time we headed out on a jaunt through Blüdhaven together. I smiled, warmed through at the boyish wonder in your eyes as we pounded through the streets on your customary route when I told you about my running days at Georgetown. I _impressed_ you! I _amazed_ you! More points to Catalina — _ding, ding!_

And once our runs are finished, it’s time to train — and if running is courtship, training is foreplay, _querido._

Over the weeks, you’ve touched me more and more when we train, increasingly fearless (on some level, you _know_ I’m inviting you to touch me _)_ as you take gentle hold of my limbs and position my body, demonstrating how to execute moves properly or to their ultimate efficacy — not even aware of the mounting frequency of your touch. You’ve complimented my acumen, telling me that this is “cake walk.” I responded by telling you that you are _un buen profesor,_ to which you grinned with pleasure. Someday, _mi profesor,_ you’ll sweat and press your body to mine as we undergo a workout of an entirely different kind — and I’ll teach _you_ a thing or two. (And at this point, it’s only a matter of counting the days, _mi amor._ It will be soon. I’ve caught you unwittingly stealing glances at my breasts, my legs. Don’t worry. You won’t have to avert your eyes forever.) 

Next, it’s the streets. There is patrol, which is generally dull (a lot of time is spent wandering about, looking for trouble, or waiting for it to find us — vastly different from the highly specific, risky assignments that Blockbuster would give me.) More thrilling are the spontaneous interventions in random or organized violence, muggings, and robberies, the slow-burn fun of working outstanding murder cases (which involves a lot of brainstorming and discussion, and you’ve applauded my ability to present theories from new angles — FBI is _not_ Fabulous But Incompetent!), and the wonder of humanitarian work — a facet of the job that you _love_ and have described to me as the real flesh and bones of vigilante heroism. 

“It’s not just about taking out bad guys or stopping robberies or giving the middle finger to organized crime or standing up to hostile alien invasions,” you explained with passion, gesturing excitedly. (God, you are _so cute_ when you get all hopped up about your work.) “Sure, kicking the crap out of some crook or saving the world from a psychotic alien despot might get your blood pumping and leave what feels like a larger and more… I don’t know, more _tangible_ footprint, but there are _so many other ways_ that people need us — and while they’re not as glamorous, they’re just as necessary. Arguably more so, even.” 

This means we do seemingly small things, minor acts of service like walking drunk college girls back to campus to ensure they get home to their dormitories safely (ah, the Tweets and Instagrams that pop up in the mornings following this escort work!), fixing flat tires for unfortunate motorists, locating lost pets for myopic octogenarians and woebegone children, serving meals and interacting with residents in orphanages, nursing homes, and homeless shelters, hospital volunteer work (oh, the children in the pediatric wards light up so much to see us when we come in, _cariño,_ and one cannot help but emulate the Grinch — the heart _will_ grow three sizes), and more besides. 

I can see why you are so especially focused on this form of service, _guapo._ It does the heart good, doesn’t it? And that civilians tend to love you for it is a nice perk, too. It certainly brings you into the public eye, anyway — _perfecto,_ because much as you are charming and gregarious, _tu bombón hermoso,_ you are also quite public just by nature. You _are_ a showman, after all. You’re not even ashamed to admit that you enjoy the spotlight and being the center of attention — it’s in your blood, you told me. You are always ready with a smile and an interview for bloggers and journalists, always ready with an autograph or a photo opp with fans (and they _are_ fans), and this has brought my own vigilante alter-ego a share of fame and attention, as well… attention I never even realized I _longed_ for. 

It is a truly odd and delicious feeling, looking at the news and blogs and social media posts, and seeing that, for the first time in my life, _I am loved._ Widely, publicly, totally. No longer dismissed as the poor daughter of immigrants, the wild child, the FBI failure, the pity case that got her whacko button pressed in the middle of a violent crime. No longer a two-bit crook working for a crime lord, seeking to find closure in a personal vendetta, enduring dehumanization and self-demeaning behavior to do so. 

No. Now, I am Tarantula — Nightwing’s protégé and partner, the Next Hero to Blüdhaven. All but a princess to this city, Blüdhaven royalty. A paladin, a champion, a _hero._

I love it, _cariño._

There is so much unbridled joy in the waves and cheers as we speed by supportive civilians on the Tomahawk as we patrol the streets, so much support and enthusiasm. That joy infuses into my very soul, lighting me up from within. Even better, we are loved as a package deal now, our names associated with one another’s — we have actually been dubbed “The New Dynamic Duo” by the local Blüdhaven press. And I’ve even caught users on the Internet “shipping” us (wisdom from the mouths of babes, am I right?) 

And it just _keeps_ getting better, a feat that seems impossible — my recognized role as your partner had me by your side when you were commissioned by the Justice League to work with your Young Justice team for a high-level assignment! I would be working for the Justice League, with Young Justice — even if I was old enough to be a goddamn _tía_ to these _bebés!_ To say I was excited would not do my very real euphoria any justice, believe me — I might as well have dropped ecstasy, I was in such a state of profound bliss. 

You were asked on to aid in guiding some newly minted trainees through the dangerous territory that was the Light’s turf, and you brought me along not just because we were mentor and student or that it would be a good exercise (teamwork is important to vigilantism, you explained, and if I could handle members of the Light, I could handle just about anything), but because you wanted to introduce me to your teammates and friends at the first opportunity. Your words, not mine. It sent a _shiver_ through me to hear you say that — you were inviting me fully into your world now, integrating me into every facet of it, and _making_ me a part of it to those that would look in. If we were potentially a package deal before, we definitely were solidified as one then. _Perfecto._

The mission was as transcendent an experience as our first night on the streets together, when we busted the contraband caravan and gave Blockbuster the finger. It was a satisfying change of pace from Roland’s present doings — his stranglehold on the Blüd is so _established,_ his MO so abiding and methodical, that you’ve maintained that we need to exercise strategic patience and work smarter, not harder for now. Gets _very_ boring, _mi profesor._ New faces, new locales, and new missions were such a breath of fresh air. 

I got along famously with your friends and teammates, even if I felt as ancient as Redhorn around the wee little baby trainees I was supposed to be peers with. More than a decade older than they are, _chulo!_ My god, I could be a mother to some of them, and I have comparatively less experience in the field! _Lástima._ But I handled myself like “a seasoned League veteran” (as Aqualad kindly put it) against our opponents, pulling the Martian girl’s butt out of an actual fire and winning myself the coveted title of Hero of the Night. Even Batman applauded my quick thinking and combat skills at the post-mission debriefing, and commended you for taking me on. (How much did you tell him, _guapo —_ I rather think not the entire story, but rumor has it he knocks boots with Talia al Ghul on the reg, so I doubt my sending Delmore Redhorn to swim with the fishes would so much as make his unflappable lip twitch by comparison.) 

Tigress and Miss Martian (the only two _chicas_ still in Young Justice that are anywhere close to my age, _ay, ay,_ I am getting old) invited me out for coffee as civilians the following week, an added and wholly unanticipated joy — and imagine my astonishment when I discovered that Tigress was none other than the mother of your godchildren, Artemis West! Oh, I had a _great_ time with the two girls, _guapo,_ as you know, and were so happy to hear — I haven’t had a real girlfriend since Viv. I hadn’t even realized how much I missed female companionship. In fact, Artemis, M’gann, and I have plans to go to the movies next week — a delicious concept I merely dreamed about just some months ago, a fantasy that I believed would never enter my living, waking world. Now, it is a savory reality — and I have every intention of eating like a pig and crying my eyes out over the syrupy love story we plan to see. 

You know, Dick… I have _you_ to thank for these enlivening changes and for resuscitating me, spiritually _and_ emotionally, after so many years of feeling utterly lifeless inside. I say that I want to fill your empty spaces, that I _will_ fill them, but the truth is… you have already filled mine. You’ve kindled my heart, breathed heat and life into it, stoked its flame from the heap of ashes gone cold and barren in the dead husk of my chest. You love to help people, and to say you’ve helped me would understate it — you have _saved_ me. You are, in every way, my white knight, my prince. 

But… 

You are a white night, a prince that I have had to _share_ — and I don’t like to share my treasured things, _mi caballero blanco._ And when you are mine, I have _no_ plans of sharing you ever again. 

In a misfortune that will forever taint what should be a good memory, I was forced to meet Barbara when I worked with Young Justice alongside you. She was nice enough to me, telling me that you “gush endlessly about me” and that she had been so excited to finally meet your protégé, so I ensured that I was nice enough to her in turn. She deserved as much for being polite, at least, and you deserved my gesture of kindness toward your fiancée, as well. I’m not a mean person, _cariño._ To be openly nasty with her would be unnecessarily cruel, and it certainly wouldn’t be kind to you, either. And I’m not about to be unkind to you, _mi amor._

The meeting, however, made it very clear that if you are to be mine, Barbara _cannot_ be in the picture. You stood behind her chair, one arm draped easily over her shoulder, as she and I chewed the rag over little get-to-know-yous. She leaned just as easily into your chest behind her, looking quite as though she belonged there, even if it was all completely wrong, Dick, and she _didn’t_ belong there. You were loving, comfortable, sweet together — sickening, disheartening, cruel where I was kind. Even if your sex life is suffering and Barbara is adjusting to her injury — your connection remains very real. Viable. I know you doubt as much, but there _is_ a chance for you, with the right care, the right focus and dedication. All of which you are devoted to putting into this relationship — a _problem_. 

Unless someone takes the doubts you have and stokes them a bit, feeds them, _grows_ them… or brings them to the attention of the wrong person. (Or in this case, the right person.) 

And at this point, _cariño —_ I have little choice. You need a push. 

You will be thankful someday, not necessarily to me in specific, because you will not discover that this was my doing, premeditated and calculated. But you will be glad of the events in the end, knowing them to be nothing but right in retrospect. You love Barbara, yes — but will she ever love you, ever make you as deliriously happy as you deserve, ever truly understand you? Will she take care of you, give you what you need? 

No, _querido._ Not like _I_ will. 

The two of you should part ways as trusted friends with a good working relationship. _That_ is the best thing for the both of you, and at this point, it’s beyond overdue. You above all deserve to be wildly happy, and after all, what is love without passion, _mi amor?_ Companionate love is a blessing, sure, but _your_ passion bubble is close to the surface — you will _never_ be satisfied, never be truly happy with mere companionability and comfort. And I will give you the passion, the fire, the unending love, the loyalty, the devotion — all of it. My sweet _amado._ I will give you everything. 

And I know as I sit down at my laptop, ready to go to work, that it’s time. The moment at _last_ has come to make you mine, to put in motion the chain of events to set you free and bring you home. I have seen you looking at me, _cariño._ You have that identifiable look in your eyes every time you do. Your eyes warm, your mouth and jaw relax, your expression softens and your posture gently angles toward me — the look that men always get when they’ve given their hearts away. 

I hold yours now, Dick. I feel it in the palm of my hand, beating, yearning, _waiting_ for me. What sense is there in delay? 

All of my bases covered, all the pieces on the board where I want them, and the opportunity now all but gift-wrapped for me, I hit the enter key. 

Happy Birthday, _mi amor._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guapo: Handsome  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Cabrones: Bastards  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Chulo: In this case, cutie :D  
> Si, si, mi capitan, vamos: Aye, aye, (my) captain, let's go.  
> Buena Suerta: Good luck  
> Que emocionante: How exciting!  
> Gentes estupidos: Stupid people  
> Pobrecito: Poor baby  
> Hurra por mi: Hooray for me  
> Chico: Kid (m), boy  
> Dios mio: My god  
> Vaya: Man! Or oh, man!  
> Querido: Darling, dear  
> Abuelito: Grandpa  
> Hermanito precioso: Precious little brother  
> Lo prometo: I promise  
> Siempre: Always, forever  
> Un buen profesor: A good teacher  
> Tu bombon hermoso: You gorgeous hunk  
> Tia: Aunt  
> Bebes: Babies  
> Perfecto: Perfect  
> Mi profesor: My teacher, teacher mine  
> Lastima: Shame  
> Ay, ay: Oh, my, oh, my goodness, oh, dear  
> Mi caballero blanco: My white knight  
> Amado: Lover, beloved


	6. Endgame (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, all! <3
> 
> FINALLY! No more montages! XD Or backstory! Or filler! Ha, ha! Hopefully this gets a bit more interesting, finally. :-)
> 
> Trigger... Referenced death of a child (teen years.) :-(
> 
> Talking to my stepdad (a cop), apparently officers don't perform CPR as commonly, even if they are first responders to an incident, and usually wait for EMS (from what he told me, started with the AIDS scare and chances of accidental contact with needles; apparently, there can be legal trouble if mishandled, as well??) Generally, it's up to the officer's discretion regarding emergency treatment/first aid/CPR, so on. I can't imagine Officer!Grayson would forego performing CPR on someone who needed it. <3
> 
> Spanish to English in the end note, per the norm. <3
> 
> Take care, lovelies! Much love and happy reading! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 6**

It’s snowing, coating the rooftop of my apartment building in a soft, cloudy blanket of white that reflects the myriad colors of the city lights off its pure, fluffy surface. The afternoon rain went to evening sleet and ice, and finally now to nighttime snow — just in time for December. I turn my face up into it, and inhale deeply. It’s a beautiful night, all kiss and make up after the damp misery of the day — not too cold, no longer sopping wet. Catalina grins next to me, and sticks her tongue out. 

“Going to be _una Navidad blanca,”_ she murmurs happily as she gazes up at the sky. 

“Let’s hope,” I say, smiling. 

She sighs, and sprawls out on her back, her hand resting on her abdomen. “Mmm. It’s so pretty.” She stretches, reaching her arms up over her head, arching her back before settling, impervious to the cold and the damp rooftop.“Peaceful, you know?” 

I nod my accord, and turn my attention to the city below. My apartment is within view of a shopping pavilion that puts up a really elaborate Christmas tree in its center courtyard and decorates all the landscaping and walkways for the holidays after Thanksgiving each year. It makes for a very nice view from the roof of my apartment building during Christmas — lots of fairy lights, lanterns, greenery, wreaths, and ribbons, a magical oasis in this urban dive. 

The Big Ben knockoff at the shopping center chimes the hour — midnight. Catalina and I are resting a bit after a busy start to patrol. One mugging thwarted, one fugitive wanted for armed robbery and murder located and turned over to authorities, one caterwauling drunk guy placed safely in an Uber, time spent scouring Byke Beach for clues in a missing persons case (a bust, but there are other leads), and finally, one wanderlust stricken toddler returned to her frantic mother in the all-night corner store at the very shopping center we’re looking down at. It’s been a productive enough night I feel justified in a break before getting back to it. 

Catalina turns her grin over to me when the clock finishes chiming, and sits up. 

_“Feliz cumpleaños, guapo,”_ she says, drawing her knees up and resting her arms on them. 

I realize I’d completely forgotten about my birthday’s impending arrival. Whoops! 

“Thanks, Cat,” I say with a smile. “Wouldn’t you know it, I’m officially a quarter-century old.” 

_“Eres un bebé,”_ she teases. “Do you have plans?” 

I shrug. “Not really. Gannon will probably try buying me alcohol at lunch or something, which will be a fail since I don’t drink much to begin with and _especially_ not on the job, but other than work and patrol afterward…” Again, I lift my shoulders, “that’s about it. I _might_ forego the run and head up to Gotham for dinner at the manor, though — you going to forgive me if I leave you to hoof it on your own?” 

It strikes me a little belatedly that Catalina has been giggling all through my detailing of my birthday not-plans. 

“What?” I say, laughing, infected by her mirth. 

“Well, _cariño,_ I have to tell you — that is sad,” she chuckles matter-of-factly. 

I snort. “What do you mean, it’s sad?” 

“You’re a ridiculously good-looking, able-bodied young man,” she tells me frankly. “And you’re only twenty-five once, you know? You ought to _live_ a little bit, even if it’s only once a year. Plus, if anyone’s earned the right to a little fun, it’s you, after all you do for this city. And the world.” She pauses, and smiles at me. “And the universe.” 

I chuckle a bit. “You give me way too much credit, Cat.” 

“Not at all,” she tells me. “… _Vaya,_ you remind me so much of John.” 

I smile over at her, touched and flattered by this. I only met the Tarantula a handful of times, but I can tell you with total confidence that he was an amazing human being, even going by just those few meetings. “Really?” 

She nods. _“Sí, guapo.”_

“Again, you give me too much credit,” I say, warmed through. I lean into her a bit. “But thank you. That’s a serious compliment.” 

“Of course,” she replies. “It’s the truth, _querido.”_

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” I sigh, and ruefully shake my head. “…I’ve become such a square.” 

There’s a pause. 

“You’re too young to be so old,” she murmurs. 

I look over at her. “What do you mean?” 

She looks sidelong at me. “…You want the truth?” 

“It’d be a refreshing change from I normally get,” I say lightly. 

“Well, living the way you do right now…” She lifts a shoulder. “What can I tell you, _tipo,_ it’s only a few months away from the soulless suburban rat race of dead inside workaholics whose dicks are stuck in shoeboxes in the closet,” she says indelicately, characteristically going from eloquent and sweet to totally crass on a dime. She looks over at me with an appeasing expression and gestures before I can humorously protest. “…I’m kidding. Kind of. But in seriousness, _cariño_ … Your day job is pretty thankless, I think we can agree, and your night job is hell on your body, whether you like to admit it or not. Your routine is just… it’s very hard on you, Dickie — more than I think you realize. It’s not really a sustainable lifestyle, either, unless you’re extremely well cared for. And… no one’s really taking _care_ of you, are they? There’s no Alfred here, no Bruce even. And you care for yourself the least of all.” 

“Hey, now,” I say, again leaning into her a bit. “I _totally_ take care of myself. I soak in Epsom salts every night — sometimes with essential oils. What’s more self-caring than a hot bath with Dr. Teals and Scentsy?” I pause. “Other than lighting candles and drinking wine in said baths.” 

She smirks at me. “Just like a disgruntled suburban housewife. You _do_ like to buck traditions and stereotypes.” I laugh, and she goes on. “Listen, I’m not trying to criticize you or even give you tough love or anything like that. Just…” She pauses, and looks down at the Christmas tree below, its lights gently sparkling on her pristine complexion and the shining tail of her hair. “I don’t know. I just think you deserve better. Or… _more,_ at least.” She turns her gaze back to me. “Dickie, I know you love your work, but what about _you?_ What about your _life?_ When’s the last time you did something just for yourself, or… someone did something for _you?_ You’re always talking about helping people, did you ever think you might need some help too on occasion?” 

I’m silent. It’s a rare moment that sees me stricken dumb even for a second, but Catalina just accomplished that uncommon happenstance with blazing efficiency. 

The truth is, I just don’t have an answer for any of those questions — not a readily available one, anyway, manufactured or otherwise. 

“I thought so,” she murmurs, and shakes her head. “Tell you what, birthday boy. Let’s call it a night. When you go inside, have one of those silly baths of yours and get some _rest._ Real rest. With REM cycles and everything. And after work, if you want to, I’ll take you out for your birthday. Are you committed to going to Gotham?” 

I shake my head. “No, I haven’t actually brought it up to anyone yet.” 

_“Perfecto,”_ she says, grinning. “In that case, I’m not taking no for an answer. You’re going to leave work at work and forget about patrol for one night and just _enjoy_ your _maldito cumpleaños, comprende?”_

_“Sí, señora,”_ I say, lifting my hands. “Whatever you say.” I pause. “I can’t promise I’ll forego patrol, but I’ll at least sign up for dinner out beforehand. How’s that?” 

Her grin widens. “That’s fair, _guapo.”_

She rises, and stretches again. I stand, too, and figure an outing after work with my nighttime partner will do me whole darn worlds of good in any case. Barbara works late closing the library on Wednesdays, so it’s unlikely she’d be able to make it to the manor for dinner, and we already have plans for the weekend, anyway. And actually spending time with Catalina as a _friend_ and not as a coworker has its own appeal — as does getting out of my apartment for something _other_ than work and patrol. Barbara will certainly be proud of the fact that I’m making an effort at getting a life — baby steps, right? 

I smile and go all fuzzy inside when Catalina approaches me. Something about her gives me a deep-rooted sense of ease — a feeling of _peace_ that I haven’t experienced in a long, long time. She just _gets_ me, I guess, always seeming to know what I need and when I need it, and honestly, she just makes me _feel good._ It’s been a long time since I’ve just plain _felt good._

It’s not to dismiss Gannon, easily my best bud nowadays, but the regretful fact that I can’t let him into the nocturnal part of my life creates something of a sad, lonely gulf between him and me — at least, on my end. But Cat has proven in a short time that I can fully rely on and share everything with her, safely and without qualms, and in complete and total trust and candidacy. And it’s been _great_ medicine — as I’ve said before, everything the doctor ordered. 

“Better get to it, Birthday Boy Wonder,” she says as she comes in for a customary hug. “You’ve got a busy day ahead of you.” 

I laugh. “Isn’t every day kind of busy?” 

“Hmm. _…Cierto_ ,” she allows warmly, and tightens her hold on me momentarily. 

I don’t especially mind the extended hug (I’m touchy-feely and _love_ hugs and have never associated lots of touch with romance/intimacy, anyway), but there’s something inside me, some insistent inner voice, gently but firmly chiding me to hit the brakes and pull back. I shrug it off, dismissing it into the recesses of my brain, and keep my arms around my friend, enjoying the feeling of her trusted nearness and the comfort of her company. 

She does the job for me in the end, pulling back, leaving her hands on my arms. I smile at her. 

And then, she leans toward me, rises up a little, and next thing I know — her lips are on mine. 

I freeze, a shock of pure electricity stabbing through my body from head-to-toe, all but lighting me on fire and sending every nerve into overdrive. She doesn’t hold the kiss for long — it’s brief, closed-lipped, gentle. I don’t even have time to properly register that she’s just kissed me or to get to the next step of figuring out whether I’m supposed to extricate myself with a scandalized, girlish shriek when she withdraws, stepping back. 

I stay afloat by some miracle (or years of Bat training), and although my ramrod stiff body is loosening piecemeal into a scarcely contained rippling of shivery energy (all of my body but my recalcitrant cock, that is — _that_ remains stiff as a freaking board after going so immediately, profoundly hard I about exploded in my cup on the spot), I affect calm and incline my head. I can smell her lip balm, sweet and fruity, like cotton candy, on my upper lip — _Christ._

This is _not_ a good time for this — I’m assuming this was a friendly birthday smooch, no different from the ones Zatanna and Raquel give me annually, but I’m instinctually hypersensitive to and pretty much involuntarily _looking_ for cues at this point (again, no one’s fault, but I’m a little starved/deprived at the moment), and I was _not_ expecting Cat to hop aboard the birthday kiss train. Like it or not, right time or person or not, my body is ready, here I come (ha.) 

And Cat just looks so unbelievably gorgeous, unmasked now, snowflakes catching in her sooty eyelashes like tiny, twinkling gems. The color is high in her fresh cheeks, her lips are plush and full, her hair looks like a waterfall of pure, gleaming satin. 

_Get it together, you asshole,_ I snarl inwardly at myself. _Get it together_ right now — 

“Uh…” I say, hiding my extreme nonplus with a magnificent effort and stepping back as she grins triumphantly at me. “What’s that for?” 

She outright laughs. “It’s your birthday, _idiota._ What do you think it’s for?” 

“Oh,” I say jovially. “Right. Uh, thanks?” 

She smirks, even as she readies her grappling hook to repel to the ground below. Guess she’s leaving. 

Well, that’s probably not a bad thing. For as long as Catalina’s hovering around with her legs for days and cotton candy lip balm, my backed up, horny ass is going to reflexively act on a banal level like a lonely dog incited to play, and go equally morose when I refuse to indulge it. 

“You’re welcome,” she says cheerfully, hooking her mask over her face. “Don’t think too much of it, now, _guapo._ I’ll see you after work, huh?” 

I nod, and before I can so much as say _hasta luego,_ she’s off down the lee of the building, repelling with ease. She waves jauntily from the sidewalk below, and then disappears around the corner. 

My entire body hums and buzzes insufferably, the slightest motion threatening to bust my dick in my pants like I’ve reverted all at once to a horny teen. I turn, my lungs heaving with my feverish respiration, and hastily dash into my apartment. I barely make it inside in time to rip the fetters of my uniform away _(why_ does it have to be a single piece, just _why)_ and free my bursting erection. It takes barely a few strokes before I come all over the wooden floor. My ears pop and ring and my knees go to water, bringing me down into the prayer position, my hand remaining locked in a death grip around my spasming, still ejaculating manhood. 

“Fuck…” I mutter raggedly, falling to my side. 

I roll to my back when it’s finally over, and lay prone, smeared with spunk and sweat. Gross. My chest leaps with my heavy respiration and my heart throbs furiously in my stuffed, ringing ears. I close my eyes, overpowered all at once by a sickening wash of self-condemnation and disgust. 

Ashamed, hating myself, I stand, nauseous and dizzy, and penitently wipe up the debauched mess I made. I head numbly to the bathroom to fill the tub with water so hot I can barely stand it, and sink under the surface, blocking out everything around me, feeling the purging heat of the water, sweating out all of my demons. 

Happy twenty-fifth Birthday. 

xxxxx 

I don’t bother to take off my police uniform before I sink onto the couch with a deep, exhausted sigh. I was so determined to get home and leave the day behind me that I didn’t leave my clothes, just my kit, in my locker at work. FaceTiming with Wally, Artemis, and the godkids as I walked home from the station got me some goodnatured teasing over my “dapper monkey suit.” They don’t commonly see me in my work duds. 

The call from them cheered me a little while we talked, but the somber mood I was in prior returned the second we hung up, and for now, it’s just me and the stale quiet of my apartment — the same fusty silence that holds my monsters in every one of its corners. 

I rest a hand on my churning abdomen. I’m not sure when Catalina’s planning on showing up to take me out as intended for my birthday, but I’m also not sure it’s such a great idea we follow through with those plans after the events at midnight. I might need a bit of a cool-down period before I can face her again without any one-sided embarrassment or awkwardness. I pull off the uniform tie, undo the topmost buttons on my shirt, and turn on some _Stranger Things,_ my comfort TV, and stare at the ceiling. 

I shouldn’t, and I _know_ I shouldn’t — I’m a cop, I’m a professional, I _have_ to distance myself, at work and following — but after torturous hours of holding them dammed up, I finally let the tears come as forcefully as they’d like with a strangled sob. I’m not on the clock anymore, anyway. No one’s here to see me cry. 

How is it _possible_ that I’ve been in the fields of vigilante and law enforcement for so long, I wonder as the tears stream over my cheeks, and yet I repeatedly find myself unable to separate emotionally from victims and survivors of violent crime, and now, just plain _accidents,_ as well? It’s something Barbara has obstreperously laid into me for a time or ten, and justifiably, stating that if I can’t truly distance myself from this job, it’s not the line of work for me. 

But just as I can’t seem to remove my emotions from my work, I equally can’t give it up — _I just can’t._ I love the work I do, even if my tendency to get too involved renders me less qualified, even if there are parts of it I simply can’t do (e.g. fatally use my weapon), even if it hurts like hell at times. 

My shift today was one of those times. A fifteen-year-old kid, walking home from school when classes were cancelled mid-day due to the white-out snow that’s still hitting the city, was fatally struck and killed by a car jumping the curb. Gannon and I got there before EMS, and although nowadays it’s not as common for responding officers to perform CPR (a holdover from the AIDS scare and subsequent fear of random, dirty needles), I fought desperately to revive the boy, going all in on chest compressions and life breaths until I was heaving for air and my arms and back burned with effort while waiting for emergency medical services. He was pronounced dead fifteen minutes after the paramedics arrived — and I swear I _heard_ my heart rip itself in two. 

Gannon and I had to tell the boy’s mother — one of the hardest things an officer is ever faced with. Telling a relative that their loved one has died is very often worse than hearing the death pronouncement itself. Death is ugly because of _grief._

The mother threw herself screaming first at Gannon, and then at me, striking me and pushing me before at last pitching forward to bury her face in my chest, her fists cleaving to my uniform coat, pulling at it, her sobs so harsh and loud that its material couldn’t muffle them. All of her weight sagging into me, I just wrapped my arms around her, and held her — not caring a single whit about professionalism or distance. There was nothing I _could_ do but hold her, share her pain, ease her load in whatever tiny way I was able. As Corporal Grayson, twenty-five years old today, and as the boy, aged nine years and four months, who was also held by a kindly officer the day his entire world was upturned in a matter of seconds. 

Again, it’s one of the hardest parts of my job, and my lack of professional distancing definitely doesn’t help. But… I _am_ glad for it sometimes, because I know that today at least it helped this woman, who needed an undetached shoulder _right then_ — not tomorrow, not after lunch, not in ten minutes when a relative could arrive — then. I just held her, and wordlessly expressed to her that _I was sorry_ and _I was there_ and _I cared._

I kept it together after we left her house, making it through the remainder of my shift and paperwork and laser duty without dropping my professional veneer, but now that I’m home, the levees are totally gone. I cry into the crook of my arm, lying on my back on my couch, wishing I could go back and redo the events of the day. And this time, _save_ that boy. 

Just one more death in a long, long line of deaths I should have prevented, one more life I should have saved, one more tragedy I should have averted — and failed to. 

A knock, forceful and sudden, falls on the door, startling me. I sit up, and hurriedly wipe my eyes and nose. I sniff a few times, and wonder momentarily if it’s Catalina. I clench my teeth, scrub my wet cheeks with my palms, and collect myself. 

_Stay whelmed, Boy Jackass,_ I tell myself, and, taking a deep breath, get up to answer. 

“Oh,” I say, smiling when I see Barbara at the door. I readily step into the hall with her. “Happy Birthday to me, what’re you doing here, babe? I didn’t expect you until Saturday —” 

She holds a hand up when I go to hug her, her whole posture stiff. Curious (and I can’t lie, hurt and a little flustered, too), I withdraw a little. 

“Public transit,” she says shortly. 

I chuckle a bit, trying to dispel the unmistakably hostile atmosphere. “Your dad finally decide to cave in?” 

“No,” she states. “I took it and told him he could deal. I only let him drive me around to spare him the strain of worrying about me because you know how his heart’s been recently. Anyway, it’s not like some thug on the lines scares me, regardless of where I find myself these days.” 

I stand, confused, wholly unsure of what to say. This impromptu visit obviously isn’t to surprise me for my birthday — I learned from both Batman and the old _Sherlock Holmes_ stories that I pored over in Wayne Manor’s library to be observant. And I can’t help but observe that the ring is off her finger. My heart, already low, sinks further. 

“Babs, what’s going on?” I ask. 

“Let’s talk in there,” she says, indicating my open apartment. 

I nod, and hold the door fully open so she can wheel inside. I join her, and close the door. I stand, jittery and fidgeting and tense, in front of it while she sits in her chair, facing me, all but breathing smoke like a furious dragon. It’s not a stretch to imagine a fiery inferno blazing all around her. My ears are tingling and warming and my heart’s _really_ starting to bang as I fight to figure out why she’s so livid. 

“Okay,” I say, trying to maintain a calm façade (and tolerably succeeding.) “So I can tell this is serious and I’m guessing it pertains to why you took your ring off.” 

She nods, and white knuckles the handles of her chair. I can see the restrained anger in her eyes, the set of her jaw that means she’s _definitely_ pissed. 

“Good observation,” she says flatly. “Yeah. It _is_ serious. And it _is_ why I took my ring off. And it _is_ why I hauled it up here on the lines and incurred the unholy wrath of Commissioner Jim Gordon — this is something you and I _need_ to talk about, _now,_ and we can’t just IM or text about it. And it can’t wait until your birthday’s over, sorry. I also don’t have _any intention_ of putting my ring back on until you answer some questions with total honesty.” 

My heart’s pounding faster by the second, the turning in my already unsettled stomach whipping into egg-beater speeds. I wrack the hell out of my brains to turn up what my transgressions might be to warrant this confrontation and spark what’s shaping up to look like a legit breakup — and the only thing coming to mind is Catalina. 

But I can explain that — or at least, I _think_ I can explain that? Well, I can comfortably explain the kiss, at least — Babs doesn’t need to know about the shaking hands with the sheriff that followed. (Last I checked, private masturbation isn’t a crime, and I didn’t actually _visualize_ Catalina or anything when I touched myself, anyway.) And it’s not Barbara’s tendency to get jealous or feel threatened — so why the flames? 

“Okay, so… what is it?” I ask, trying not to reflexively go on the defensive (this time, succeeding less tolerably.) 

“You tell me,” she says, pulling a folded paper from her coat pocket and extending it to me. “Start with this.” 

Bewildered, floundering, wondering what this sheet of paper could possibly be and if this birthday could possibly get any worse, I open the leaf, and my guts just about fall out of my body. 

_Oh, no…_ I think, staring at it in utter dismay. 

It’s the printed transcript of an IM conversation I had with Wally a few months ago — one that’s _exceptionally_ damning. 

I have _no_ idea how Babs would have gotten it, which on its own is troubling, but more pressing at this moment are the several glaring phrases that stand out in stark, sickening, shameful relief against the more mundane parts of the talk. 

_I love her, Walls, like THAT’S not the problem… The trouble’s more that I’m not sure if that’s just comfort and friendship talking at this point, like it’s just what we both know?? —_

_Lol, maybe. The good old “we love each other but aren’t really ‘in love’ anymore” deal —_

_Well, I feel obligated to stay, though, after everything… like I have a responsibility to her after what happened. I should have been there, I should have protected her, but I wasn’t and I didn’t —_

_Yeah, exactly, who leaves their fiancée after something like THAT happens? —_

_No… I mean, I’ve had doubts since before it happened. Like… BIG doubts. And a decent deal of time before —_

_I guess it’s just that we aren’t as good a FIT for each other as we used to be, maybe… I mean let’s face it, dude, she and I have been on different trajectories for a long long time at this point and I just don’t know if those trajectories are ever going to wind up on paths that meet again. I swear she thinks of me as some obnoxious puppy someone dumped on her, getting in the way and wanting to play fetch when she’s gotta work work work —_

_Weeellll fair enough, I guess we DO work okay together after all then since like you just said we’re BOTH always working and never the twain shall meet —_

_…Especially when it comes to boning ha ha :P … :-( —_

_No, not that, it’s not her fault at all. I just kind of feel weird about it. Like the fact that it can’t REALLY be reciprocally enjoyed kind of kills it for me?? —_

“Oh, Jesus, Barbara,” I sigh, closing my grip around the paper and squeezing a handful of my hair. I have _no_ desire to read any more of the small print on that sheet and know what other crimes of speech I committed. 

“Don’t ‘oh, Jesus’ me,” she snaps. “What the _hell,_ Dick?” 

I look helplessly at her, frantically trying to find the right words, knowing I’m _totally_ fucked. 

“…I don’t really have a good excuse,” I say, sick with compunction, my stomach lurching, “so… I’m not going to make one. But Barbara, look, this was _months_ ago —” 

“I don’t care when it was,” she says. She jerks a finger at the paper. “Is that really how you feel?” 

“No, Babs, I swear —” 

“You said it yourself,” she states bluntly. “Those are your words. You wrote them. That’s your username. That’s Wally’s username. You, you, you.” She shakes her head in disbelief. “ _You said_ you have to stay with me — stay with me what, like I’m some charity case? Like what happened to me was such a _tragedy_ that you have to _save_ me now because you couldn’t before?” Her nostrils flare. “I’ll have you know, I _don’t_ need saving. I can accomplish that just fine on my own, thanks.” 

“Babs, listen,” I say. “It’s not like that, I _swear._ It’s more that —” I gesture, trying to form my sprinting thoughts into cohesive words. “When Wally and I had that conversation... I was just... I was _really_ feeling the distance. I was tired, I was isolated, I was lonely, I was overworked —” 

“What, and I wasn’t?” Her voice is perfectly calm, reasonable, even, but her cheeks are a blazing, berry red, redder even than her hair. 

Yep. I’m fucked. 

“I didn’t say you weren’t,” I say, and heave a loud sigh. “And I’m not even trying to _justify_ the crap I said, I’m just trying to _explain_ myself — look, like I said, I wasn’t really in the greatest headspace the day Wally and I had that conversation.” I wave my hands. “I was just feeling _everything_ that day and I know it sounds hard to believe, but occasionally even _I_ have days where I feel a little despondent about every single thing ever, be it that the elastic is shot in my boxers or they didn’t have my favorite cereal at the grocery or I _really_ miss my fiancée after weeks of not seeing her.” 

“Dick, this goes _way_ beyond feeling _a little despondent,”_ she says, her voice now starting to rise. “This is stating you weren’t in this even _before_ I got hurt, and then you just stuck around afterward because you felt like you should have rescued me like a kitten in a tree or something — and then, since you _didn’t_ save me like a kitten in a tree, you think you owe it to me to stick around like I’m some rescue animal!” Her chest heaves. 

“Babs, again, it’s not like that — it’s not like that _at all,”_ I say, starting to flounder, unsure of how to explain myself or even just mollify her justified fury. How do you explain yourself when you’re caught saying a bunch of totally stupid, shitty, unfiltered things about a loved one in a moment of frustration and angst? Just _how?_ (I guess you don’t, because let’s face it — you can’t, generally.) 

“Listen,” I continue, “our lives just — they weren’t really _meshing_ for a while, it’s already hard when you live apart, and then when something like this happens…” Again, I gesture. 

“What,” she growls. “Go on.” 

“I guess it’s just… it’s either going to make it or break it, you know?” I look at her imploringly. “It’s not breaking it, though, is it?” 

She just eyes me, and my heart sinks all the way to the floor when I see tears forming over her lower lashline. 

“Maybe _this_ wasn’t going to break it,” she says, indicating her chair. “But… what you said. Maybe _that_ was going to.” 

“Barbara,” I say. “I don’t know what to say except I’m sorry.” I step toward her, but stop when she goes stiff in her chair. “But listen — _I don’t feel that way anymore._ I didn't even feel that way then. I _never_ really felt that way, just…” I shake my head, all but _pleading_ now. “I was stupid and insensitive and unfair. _Beyond_ stupid and insensitive and unfair.” 

“Go on,” she prompts. 

“I was an asshole. Scum. Smegma, even. An actual dick.” She nods with each proclamation. “But… Babs, I didn’t mean it. It was just… kind of a hard time, that’s all.” 

She sighs, and shakes her head. She swipes at a tear. “Dick, that’s not all. You and I both know that’s not all. This was…” She looks off, and works her jaw. “Maybe this was all just delaying the inevitable. I mean, we’ve grown apart, and _have_ been growing apart a long time, since _well_ before I got hurt. I knew it, you knew it, everyone else knew it. We _have.”_

“Babs, don’t say that,” I say, my gut now falling along with my heart. “We can figure this out —” 

“Can we?” she asks. “Dick, you’re more devoted to your _work_ than you are to me, both of your jobs, and what’s that going to mean in a few months? Or a few years? Are you really going to be willing to give up Nightwing or working with the BPD to do the domestic thing?” 

“Babs, I _offered_ — repeatedly — to move back to Gotham for you —” 

“What, to play nursemaid because you felt guilty?” she snaps. “Even your precious _guilt_ couldn’t pull you out of here.” 

“You _said_ not to move,” I remind her, gesticulating. 

“Because I _knew_ what moving would mean to you,” she growls in a righteous snarl. “So tell me. Has anything changed? Are you _ever_ going to be willing to give all this up?” 

“Are you asking me to?” 

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not. I _know_ better. And I know you’re not asking me to give up my life, either, and that’s the rub — I’m pretty sure _neither_ of us is willing to make the sacrifices necessary to really make this work. Which begs the question, Dick. How long can we go on like this — really, how long?” 

“Babs,” I protest. 

“And here’s _another_ thing, Dick… You think _you’re_ the only one who’s sexually frustrated? Listen, you jerkwad, I’ve had a _hell_ of a lot more adjusting to do than you, here — and that bit about my limitations killing it for you _really_ hurt me. Jesus, big whoop if I can't feel things like I used to! That doesn't mean it can't be _reciprocally enjoyed,_ or what the hell ever! Did it never occur to you that I might just like the _emotional_ closeness of sex? That I don’t _need_ to experience more than that?” 

I’m quiet a moment, feeling like a certified, grade A asshole. 

“It… occurred to me, I guess, sure?” I say. “But… it just feels… it just feels _selfish,_ Barbara. It feels one-sided.” I pause, and stare at the floor like a reprimanded pre-teen. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

“Well, you did,” she states. “And it’s not selfish. It’s the opposite, actually.” 

There’s a long, long period of quiet before either of us speaks again. 

“Can I try to fix any of this?” I ask. 

She eyes me a moment, then sighs. 

“No,” she replies. “And I don’t _want_ you to try to fix anything.” 

“Then what _do_ you want?” 

Her posture straightens in her chair, and she takes a breath. 

“I want to just focus on taking care of myself for a while,” she says, “and I _don’t_ want to be with someone who, frankly, is wasting my time. This isn’t going to work, you and I. It just isn’t. No matter how we slice it.” She looks up at the ceiling, and takes another breath before leveling her gaze on me. “So we might as well end it now. Minimize the collateral damage and just be done with it while we can still part ways as friends.” 

“Barbara, _please_ don’t say that,” I say, my face and chest going hot. “Please don’t.” 

She shakes her head, her lips thinned into a determined line. 

“Babs, just…” Again, I gesticulate. “What do you want me to do? Name it, I’ll do it. I don’t care what it is.” 

Once more, she shakes her head. “I want you to let this end. _I_ want this to end.” 

I shift over to the couch, and sit down. 

“Is this it, then?” I ask, not looking at her. 

There’s a length of silence. 

“Yeah,” she finally says, her voice quiet. “This is it.” 

I stare at the floor, not speaking for a good length of time as I process what just happened. 

I grind my fingers into my throbbing temple. Something’s been niggling at the back of my mind since Barbara handed me that printed sheet of paper — something I didn’t have much time to pay attention to and allow to form into corporeal thought. But now there’s unspeaking, uninterrupted quiet between us, and I’m no longer self-reproaching and explaining and reacting, I can give my thoughts proper time to take shape, and I discover as I pore over some of these more fleshed-out thoughts that I might very well be _furious._ And frankly, I don’t have a whole lot left to lose here, so even if this starts a serious argument, I’m throwing it all out there before this acid, sizzling question eats me like a ravenous snake from the inside out. 

“Can I ask you something?” I query. 

She inclines her head. Her eyes are wet, and although there’s a pang of guilt at the sight, I stand my ground. I _have_ to know. 

“How did you get that conversation?” I ask. 

Her lips tighten, and then she sighs. 

“I… got an email yesterday,” she says. “And whoever sent the email apparently didn’t want to be ratted out, because they made a decent effort to cover their tracks — enough that it would take a little time to trace them, anyway. I decided to deal with that later, though, because seriously, Dick — seeing the actual message, i.e. the conversation, the dialogue certainly _sounded_ like you and Wally. So before wasting time snooping on the sender, I decided to confirm whether this conversation ever actually took place… meaning, sorry, I remoted to your desktop so I could turn up your IM history.” She gestures. “And… Voila. There it is.” She sighs. “Anyway, at this point, I really don’t care _who_ sent it, although I’m assuming it was a concerned friend of ours you flapped your gums to. All I care about is that the conversation was real.” 

My heart _really_ kicks itself into the next gear, accelerating under the spurs of a rapidly kindling anger. I honestly have _no_ idea who would have sent her an email with such a… crazy- _specific_ and extremely private conversation with my best pal attached to it. I mean, who the hell actually _does_ that? It just doesn’t make any _sense_ — and all but clinches my mounting suspicion that Barbara is lying to me about how she came to acquire that IM transcript. 

At which point, my dander starts going up. 

_Way_ up. 

“So… Walk me through this like a small child, Barbara,” I say, again fighting for calm. The problem with my rage style is that I tend to be patient, forgiving, and tolerant, generally, and as such, I have an infinitely long fuse that goes on and on and on. But when that thing finally blows, it blows _spectacularly,_ the explosion fueled by years of compacted, accumulated, suppressed anger. And I can feel that fuse — _long_ since set to burning now — gearing up to set off a pretty magnificent blast. “You just admitted to remoting to my desktop, something I wouldn’t put past your skill set, so that much I’ll buy for a dollar. But what I’m _failing_ to comprehend is who the literal hell would hack into my shit to turn up such a highly specific conversation from _months_ ago in order to _anonymously_ send it to you? In an email? And then try covering their tracks after the fact…?” I gesture. “Christ, Babs, come on. I know you think I’m stupid, but news flash — _I’m not._ So just admit you _lied_ to me and that you up and broke into my desktop and turned up that conversation because you’ve wanted to dump me for a _long_ time and just needed a legitimate excuse to do it first because let’s face it — I haven’t exactly _given_ you a solid reason that’ll make you look like the good guy in this fucked up situation if you _do_ drop my ass.” 

Her eyes blaze, and her teeth show as she sneers in horrified fury. 

“Well, gee, thanks a lot for the faith and trust, Dick,” she snarls. “You know, I _have_ a little integrity, thank you very much — I’m not about to just go through the giant pain in the ass that is busting into your PC because I want a more socially acceptable excuse to dump you or something. You know, it’s a pretty sad person who cares so much about what other people think that she commits a _felony_ to avoid looking like the villain in a situation!” 

“You’ve never balked at _committing felonies_ before,” I snap. 

“Neither have you,” she retorts. “But you and I agree there’s a _purpose_ for it in what we do. What the hell real _purpose_ is there in my hacking into your machine and turning up your private conversations? I have other things to do with my time — _better_ things — and if I’d made up my mind about breaking up, I’d have just done it. I wouldn’t _need_ to find some conversation in which you were a total asshole to justify it to other people first!” 

“Then who would have sent that email, Barbara — please, help me out,” I say. “Because honestly? I find it a pretty far stretch to believe that someone broke into my _locked conversations_ and turned that specific one up and sent it to you.” 

“Well, _Dick,_ maybe if you’ve talked like this to our friends, it might just be possible that one of them thought I had the right to know!” 

“Wally is the _only person_ I had that conversation with.” 

“Then talk to him,” Babs says flatly. “Either way, you _had_ that conversation. Pretty much any argument you want to present is automatically moot at this point.” 

I’m silent. My teeth clench. 

“And let’s just face it,” she continues. “This hasn’t been a relationship in a _long_ time. And I can’t even _look_ at you now, knowing you felt the way you said you did in that disgusting conversation even at one point.” She eyes me furiously, her chest swelling with her angered breath. “It’s _over.”_

She digs in her coat pocket and extends her ring to me, and even though I was expecting my internal fuse to epically detonate at the equivalent of ten nuclear blasts up until now, the blistering fire of anger abruptly gutters — just going immediately to tepid, stagnant water in a blink. I’m just completely, completely _drained._ I let go an exhausted sigh, and, resting my elbows on my knees, cover my face with my hands. I shake my head. 

“Keep it,” I murmur. 

“I don’t want it, Dick,” she snaps. 

“I don’t, either,” I mutter. 

She drops it on the floor with a _plinging_ sound, and turns her chair to leave. 

“Dick,” she says over her shoulder (normally, I’d get the door for her, but she’ll slaughter me if I try helping her with it, so I just stay where I am. I realize all at once that I’m _sick_ of fighting with her about just about everything.) 

“What,” I mumble. 

“Any chance _Catalina_ sent that email?” she asks. 

A flare of disbelief stirs in my gut. I stare over at her. 

“Wow, Babs,” I say incredulously. “Just wow.” 

She snorts, and shakes her head. “Thought so. Go tell it to _her,_ then.” 

I grit my teeth, and when the door shuts, I arch against the back of the couch, stretching my neck, and try to make some sense of what just happened. Odd senses of vibration roll through my limbs, making me go cold and hot all at once. My stomach turns and my chest shivers. I can’t tell if I’m hurt, angry, flustered, sad, anything in between. I _do_ know that I feel the profoundest sense of betrayal that I’ve _ever_ experienced, a feeling that worsens as I race over the surface of the situation and fight to understand its topography. The thought that Barbara might have broken into my machine in the hopes of catching me cheating on her with Catalina, only to find the conversation with Wally instead, thereby giving her an excuse to boot me out the door, screams in a heavy metal snarl that drowns out the white noise of my other thoughts. 

I press a hand to my forehead, and although I start to laugh over the absurdity of the fact that Barbara was possibly jealous and possessive enough in our final days to violate the crap out of my privacy and that I just got dumped on my birthday (emo, angst!) and that my life is becoming _quite_ the soap opera, it’s not long before I’m crying again. Tears of rage, sadness, regret, self-loathing, so many emotions I can’t even sift through them all. Every one of them is conflicting, each wars with the other. All of them _hurt._

I cry _hard._

My phone startles me when it goes off on the coffee table, and I lift it from where it rests to silence it. Probably Jason, trying to raise me as he has all afternoon. I’ll call him back in the morning and toss up a hope he’ll forgive me for ignoring him all day. 

I pause when I see it’s Catalina. 

I muster up, stuffing the tears for the nth time, and, although there’s a stab of self-reproach as I do, I take the call. 

_“Hola, guapo,”_ she says cheerfully into the phone. “Are you home?” 

I clear my throat and am thankful I can keep my voice steady no matter how distraught I am. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m home.” 

_“Perfecto!_ So what do you feel like doing tonight?” she asks. 

“I don’t know,” I murmur, and rub at my forehead. “Honestly, Cat, I’m not really sure I feel like doing anything tonight. Can it wait until tomorrow?” 

“Come on, now, we had this conversation already,” she chides jokingly. “You know, about living a little? And only being twenty-five once?” I obligingly chuckle a bit. “So come on, Dickie. Let’s go _live._ Don’t make me drag you out of your apartment with whips and chains.” 

“That sounds hot,” I crack half-heartedly. 

“I _knew_ it — you _are_ kinky under that Boy Scout exterior,” she says triumphantly. I snort a little. “Well, after a little light bondage, what _else_ do you feel like getting up to?” 

I sigh. I can’t believe I let the conversation take that turn. 

“I don’t know, Cat,” I say. “Just might not be a good night, okay?” I pause, and make a decision. “Listen, um… and keep this on the DL, but… I think Babs and I just broke up.” I pause, and heavily add, “Let me rephrase that. We broke up. I don’t think. I know.” 

There’s a moment of quiet, and then Catalina speaks. 

“Oh, _cariño,”_ she says, her voice a sweet, caring hum. “I’m so sorry. What happened? Most important, are you okay?” 

I’m silent, and then, just like that, the tears are pouring again. I’ve never been apologetic about expressing my emotions — my dad was the same way, and taught me not to repress my feelings. So if I want to cry, I’ll cry — and right now, I really, really want to. Especially at the soft, inviting kindness in my friend’s voice. 

That the events of midnight transpired, and that Babs apparently felt more threatened by Cat than she let on, all of the above thereby making Catalina arguably entirely the _wrong_ person to turn to for comfort minutes into my newfound bachelorhood, doesn’t seem to matter much. I just want to go all in on her proffered compassion and support — to hell with midnight flubs and moments-old breakups. 

And god, I need it. _I need it._ If Catalina weren’t around, I’d be on my own, crying like a pitiful, jilted sap into a pillow with ten pints of ice cream and a dozen donuts until my shift starts tomorrow. So I don’t give a damn about broadly accepted appropriate behavior, supposed risky business, or a fully one-sided faux pas right now — I’m just so, so thankful she’s here. 

“Not really,” I admit wetly. “You wouldn’t _believe_ the day I’ve had.” 

“Oh, you poor thing, you’re crying… _Please_ don’t cry, _querido_ ,” she says. “I have a _very_ strict rule that no one cries alone in my presence — and I’m a _really_ ugly cryer, like a Claire Danes cryer, and I _don’t_ want to look like a bus ran over me when I set foot outside my house to come over and hug you.” 

I chuckle a little and sniff. “You are _not_ an ugly cryer. Far from it. _I’m_ an ugly cryer. I look like a freaking Orc when I cry.” 

“One, you’re sweet, and two, I doubt that,” she tells me warmly. “You could fall in a mud puddle and still look perfect, _hermoso.”_

I can’t help but get all disproportionately emotional over the compliment. “Well, _you’re_ sweet. Thanks, Cat.” 

“Of course. It’s the truth. Anyway, _querido,_ listen… Why don’t we take tonight off patrol and we’ll just talk? I have a feeling this has been building for a while, meaning you _need_ to get it off your chest, and ASAP. And I don’t think that’s going to be possible to accomplish over a single dinner. You know, it’s DJ Hixxy night over at Elbows —” 

I laugh, unable to help myself. “Oh, man, Cat, do you know how many times I got called over there when I was first on the force and working nights?” 

She laughs, too. “Well, you’re off the clock now, Corporal Grayson. Just ignore all the illegal substances being passed around for once in your life. And from what I hear, you _need_ to unload — and maybe just get good and drunk while you’re at it, too. If Bangar’s there, he makes a killer mojito…” 

Again, I laugh. “Weren’t you in SADD?” 

“I was,” she states proudly. “And I’m still not a proponent of drinking and driving. But you’re not going to be driving, are you — and you’ll have me there to protect you from all the raving X-heads if you can’t hold your drink. Besides, you have to work tomorrow — so I promise I’ll make sure you don’t overdo it. Actual Girl Scout’s honor.” 

I chuckle. “Well, that’s nice of you, Cat, but… you know crime doesn’t exactly take a night off.” 

“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t — or that you haven’t earned one. Let the night shift cops do their job for once, huh?” 

I sit for a moment, considering. 

A drink with Cat and finally unburdening myself to someone who _cares_ is past tantalizing, and I can’t even remember the last time I did something like this — i.e. have fun with a friend, share my troubles with a caring party, actually take some time for, as Gannon puts it, my “damn self.” 

I sigh, and make up my mind. It’s only for tonight, and I won’t get too plowed, anyway. I _do_ have to work tomorrow, and I’ve never been one to drink much in the first place. 

However, something once again is twinging in my gut — some impulse of practicality and sensibility, telling me _not_ to go drinking with a gorgeous woman before the corpse of my years-long relationship is even cold. Again, though, I ignore it — if I can’t trust myself in this, I should probably just turn in my badge. 

Right? 

It’ll be fine. 

“All right,” I say finally. “What time and where do you want to meet?” 

“I’ll meet you at your place,” she says. “Give me an hour?” 

I nod. “Okay. See you then.” 

I hang up with her, and head to the bathroom to shower and spruce up a little. In an effort to get my faculties back in order before heading out, I rest under the flow of hot water for a little while, just feeling it as it caresses my skin, letting it soothe my sore muscles and dissolve the ugly, hurting stains of trauma and heartache. Then, I methodically go the whole nine yards of hygiene — focusing hard on meticulously shampooing, washing, shaving, trimming; next, flossing and brushing and gargling like I’m trying to impress the dentist at my six-month cleaning. It all has the desired meditative effect, and by the time I’m finished, I feel marginally refreshed and settled — for now. 

It’s not a date, but we _are_ going to a club — so I wear the single set of decent clothes I still own nowadays (jeans without rips and a black button-down. Reasonable.) Rubbing my aftershave lotion into the skin under my jaw, I inspect my reflection, and determine myself to be passable. 

And now, the expected knock. 

I straighten my shoulders and head to the door, leaving the abandoned ring on the wooden floor as I pass by where it lies. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Una Navidad blanca: A white Christmas  
> Feliz cumpleanos, guapo: Happy Birthday, handsome  
> Eres un bebe: You’re a baby  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Vaya: Man (as in “Oh, man”)  
> Si, guapo: Yes, handsome  
> Querido: Darling, dear  
> Tipo: Dude  
> Perfecto: Perfect  
> (…) maldito cumpleanos, comprende?: (…) damn birthday, got it?  
> Si, senora: Yes, ma’am  
> Cierto: True  
> Idiota: Idiot  
> Hasta luego: See you later  
> Hola, guapo: Hello, handsome  
> Hermoso: Handsome, beautiful


	7. Endgame (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everyone...
> 
> Couple of trigger warnings... Drinking, unwitting bad decisions about drinking, bad-decisions-the-end, and the act of purposely being a bad designated driver to manipulate/take advantage of a situation lie ahead.
> 
> I'm not a drinker myself (and not even I don't drink often, like I just don't drink, period), so hopefully my Google search turned up a legit somewhat obscure possibly illegal powerful alcohol, lol. XD Not to say I haven't been drunk, just only twice in my life and the last time was almost ten years ago. XD
> 
> Side note: Babs will have a chance to say her piece about the reveals -- and I feel compelled to mention that neither she nor Dick is the villain in their relationship. <3
> 
> Catalina's opinion of Babs does not reflect the author's opinion. :D (Or Dick's opinion.) :D
> 
> Spanish to English and a medical definition in the end note. :-)
> 
> Happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 7**

You, _cariño,_ are drunk. 

You’re adorably jovial, swaying perilously on your barstool and getting all giggly at the slightest provocations, your blue eyes darkened to an ultramarine that flashes the myriad colors of the pulsing light show that blinks over the club floor. You’re a little flushed, a little touchy-feely, a little sappy. _Excelente._

Dick, you _needed_ a good unloading — and now that’s been done, you _really_ need a good fuck. It’s painfully obvious. And maybe ensuring that you overindulged on “te-kill-ya” as you called it was a little extreme, but I know that without its influence you’d resist me — not because you don’t want me, I know that you do, but because of your almighty Boy Scout principles. And you are not as prepared to move on from Barbara as I thought you would be. Again, _querido,_ you need a push. 

So, a little too much booze, just once, won’t hurt you, not in the long run. In fact, it will be very good for you. You are so low, so sad, _mi amor._ You need this so badly. You need to feel good. 

And although without a doubt you’ll feel guilty about all of this come morning, you’ll soon find that there was never any need for remorse. I will make you so happy that whatever initial guilt you feel will seem as though it never was. Even Barbara will acknowledge everyone is better off after she left you. I did _everyone_ in this situation a favor. 

You answered your door when I came knocking earlier, looking devastatingly sharp in a black button-down and jeans that fit you perfectly, and the first thing you did was whistle a bit. 

“Damn, girl,” you said, hugging me as is your wont, “where’s the runway?” 

I chuckled, gratified. I _had_ taken care with my appearance, wanting to catch your eye without making it obvious I was doing so. So a fitted leather skirt, drapey top tucked in at the waist, and suede over-the-knee “hooker boots” — all of it black — it was. (You like my legs. But you will have to work for them, _mi amor._ You’ll also find some nice surprises under my clothes for you.) Hair worn down and straight, blended black eyeliner. I purposely went without lipstick — just a good amount of balm. _Perfecto._ I left my hooded leather coat unzipped, my printed scarf loose. You deserved something to look at even before the coat came off, I figured. 

“It _is_ a club and we _do_ have to clear the line,” I said easily. “The better you look, the more likely you are to get in, right?” 

“Well, you’re going to want to stand in front of me, then,” you said, and pulled your coat on. I laughed as you closed your door and locked it. “Shall we, my lady?” 

For as cheerful as your words might have been, I could sense the undercurrents of sorrow and emotion, _feel_ how unsettled and morose you were. I linked arms with you as we walked, letting you know I was _there_ for you, that I _cared_ about you. You smelled wonderful. 

“By the way,” I said as we walked through the glistening streets, “you look very handsome, yourself. You’ll have to fight to keep all the drunk girls off you.” 

“Thanks,” you said, and I _swear_ you flushed a little. My god, so cute. “Likewise, by the way — I should have brought the Kali sticks with me because you’re going to get _swarmed_ by all the horny drunk guys.” 

“You going to defend my virtue?” I said. “You _know_ I have that much covered, _mi caballero blanco.”_

“Of course,” you told me. “But I selfishly wouldn’t mind the pleasure of knocking some barbarian heads together if they think they’ve got a shot with you and get persistent when you disagree.” 

“You’re my prince,” I said, and laid my head briefly on your shoulder. “My _handsome_ prince. You know, I don’t think I’ve seen you in real clothes, _guapo._ You clean up good.” 

“You’re too nice to me, Cat,” you said, smiling and leaning into me a little. “Thank you, though.” 

“I’m not too nice to you, _hermoso,”_ I told you. “I just call them like I see them. And I’ll call this one again — you clean up good. Accept the compliment, will you?” 

Your smile widened. “All right. Compliment accepted. Thank you.” You paused. “You know, I think this is the first time I’ve gone out not in uniform in… man, I can’t even remember how long.” 

I clucked. “Like I said. You _really_ need to live a little.” 

“Starting right now?” You turned your smile directly to me. I melted even in the cold. 

“ _Si, mi profesor._ Starting right now.” 

We made it to Elbows, and were allowed in without ceremony before it was even eight. (Best way to tell I’m undeniably looking good. _Ding!_ ) Without further ado, we sat down at the bar, and I ordered you a drink. 

The first thing you did, other than start in on the booze, was tell me about the terrible, heartbreaking day you had at work. My god, _cariño._ How is it you do what you do, and _not_ lapse into those darker places that overtake so many police officers? I reached over to you, held your hand, and just listened as you poured your heart out. I let you talk yourself out, and then I told you that you were a hero through and through, all the way down to the nuclei. I told you that this city, this country, this world, this universe — none of them deserve you. I meant every single word with every fiber of my being. 

Then I ordered you another mojito — this time with a shot of tequila. 

Next, it was onto Barbara. 

“I just feel terrible,” you sighed, tracing the condensation on the outside of the mojito glass with your finger. You were already a little tipsy. 

“Why should you feel terrible, _cariño?”_ I asked. 

“I just said some really awful stuff,” you lamented, leaning your head on your hand. “Like… _really_ awful stuff. I didn’t even _mean_ any of it, Cat, not really, just… I was just upset and…” You shook your head. “Babs _never_ should have seen it. _I_ didn’t even want to remember saying any of it after I ran my mouth, that she saw it…” You looked off. Your eyes were glistening. 

“What did you say?” 

“I’d rather not get into what I said,” you murmured. “I’m ashamed enough.” 

“You don’t have to be ashamed with me, _guapo.”_

You stared at your shot of tequila, and then quaffed it. 

“It was… just a bunch of stupid shit about her to Wally after kind of a bad morning,” you mumbled unhappily, and then downed half the mojito. “You know… I _felt_ bad running my mouth to Wally like I did, I mean, I _knew_ it wasn’t fair to her when she wasn’t even there to defend herself, but once I got started, it was like I just couldn’t stop, you know? I just… I just needed to get it all off my chest to _somebody_ before I imploded on myself, and I’d held it all _in_ for so long, you know what I mean?” 

You hiccupped profoundly, and looked startled. Uh-oh, someone drank a little too fast. I bit back a giggle and nodded. 

“And I just didn’t _know_ how to talk to her back then,” you continued as though nothing had happened. “It was _so hard_ to talk to her, Cat. Right after she was hurt, I mean. Everything felt like the wrong thing to say — it’s not to say she wasn’t fine some days, but most of the time she was just so _distant_ and even a little hostile sometimes. I started feeling like… I don’t know, kind of like she resented me.” You sighed. “She never really wanted me around. She’d come over or I’d go up there Saturdays, but that was it. I’d ask to see her all the time during the week, and she’d turn me down, or she’d be busy or have something else to do. I surprised her at work with dinner once when she was closing at the library, and you’d think I’d shot her dog and run over the carcass. And I didn’t feel right about bringing my feelings up to her with everything _she_ was facing…” Again, you sighed. “It just felt unbelievably selfish and unfair. I mean, come on, Catalina, how much more self-centered could I get — like she just went through something horrible and traumatic and has a freaking Mt. Nemesis of crap on her plate to deal with, and there I am griping about my pathetic manfeels and acting like I’m so tragically misunderstood and overlooked.” You snorted, and shook your head. “And I get that she wanted to maintain her independence, but… I just wanted to take _care_ of her. I wanted to be close to her again, like the way we were before I started work at the BPD, when we did _everything_ together and couldn’t go two seconds without talking and were still the center of the universe to each other.” 

“Of course you did,” I said. 

“I mean, before she got hurt, after I started at the BPD, I just kind of felt like we were growing apart, you know? We thought we’d be fine staying in different cities, and we were at first, but dude, we’re _both_ workaholics, which meant we didn’t visit or see each other much. So we ended up feeling the distance after a while. Both of us.” You gestured to illustrate your point. “Like her life was on one course, and mine was on another, and those courses just never seemed like they were going to intersect. It was hard to feel like we’d ever be _close_ again. Then _after_ she got hurt…” You gazed off into space for a moment, your eyes gone from glistening to welling. “God, almost losing her made me realize what I had and how much time I’d been wasting with her. Like I _still_ can’t believe I could take her for granted the way I did after I’d lost my family.” 

“It can happen to the best of us,” I assured you. “She’d been a big part of your life for so long, you know, always there, always constant. Kind of like the painting on the wall that’s been there since you were born and never moves.” 

You nodded. “My BFF since I was nine. She was the first friend I ever made in Gotham.” 

Then you were quiet a minute, studying your glass. 

“Anyway,” you said eventually, “from that point, I wanted to _stop_ wasting time — and start truly prioritizing and taking care of her. I just wanted to go all in on every _second_ with her. But… I kept feeling like she was pushing me away, like she’d just get so _short_ with me all the time and hardly ever had a nice thing to say and it just seemed like she didn’t even want to be around me. I _wanted_ to be there for her, but I didn’t know how she actually wanted me to do that, or if she even wanted me to do that at all…” You were silent for a moment. “I tried, but… I actually started feeling like she didn’t even _love_ me anymore, Cat, you know? And after a while, I was just pretty convinced it all meant we _had_ grown apart, like… irretrievably. It felt like we’d disconnected somewhere down the line, and in the process, she’d come to see me as an imposition on her, or one more thing on her plate. It got so I was thinking maybe I should just bounce if that was what she wanted.” 

“Was it what _you_ wanted?” I asked. 

You shook your head, and finished your mojito. “I didn’t know if it was what I wanted, or even if it was what _she_ actually wanted. She was adjusting to a _lot_ and I was just bungling around trying to support her in it. I _do_ know I felt like I shouldn’t leave her regardless of how I felt, since I’d already failed her, you know? And I _wanted_ to talk to her about it, and I _should_ have talked to her about it, just… well, see the above reference points.” You shook the ice in your glass, and frowned. “So… when Wally asked how she and I were doing… I realized I just wanted to vent a little and that I _desperately_ needed some advice from my best friend. He’s like my _brother._ ” 

You had officially transitioned from tipsy to a bit drunk, I determined. I ordered you two more shots of tequila. You didn’t even notice, knocking back the first without even seeming to register that you were doing so. 

“So I went off at the mouth about a bunch of stuff that just felt noticeably worse after Babs had spent the whole morning lecturing me like I was five years old and making me feel like I was a totally infinitesimal speck. I just really needed to unload, I guess.” You sighed. “But here’s the thing, Cat… Wally talked me out of everything by the end, like… he got me back on track and smacked some sense into me. I remember what he said, too — he said people are always going to fall in and out of love with their others, and often on a one-sided basis, and it’s how they weather the _out-of-love_ times that matter. Then he asked me to list three things I loved about Babs, and I rattled off like ten things off the cuff without even having to think about it. Basically meaning — I loved her and was definitely still _in love_ with her.” You fiddled with the empty mojito glass, looking sad and nostalgic. “That’s when I realized I was really being stupid — just all wrapped up in _my_ thoughts and feelings — and I was just temporarily upset about some of the things Barbara said. And I missed being near her, and I hated the distance, and I wished she’d… I don’t know, let me back in. Like _that_ was what was bothering me.” 

“ _Claro.”_

“But Cat, I knew she needed space, and I needed to let her _have_ her space and come to me when she was ready. It didn’t mean she didn’t love me, it just meant I might have unwittingly been suffocating her a little when she had more than enough crap to sort through as it was. And sure, the concept of waiting and backing off kind of sucked, since it wasn’t what I wanted to hear or do, but…” You shrugged. “When you love someone, you make compromises and you stop thinking about only yourself, you know? And it was _okay_ at that point. So I just didn’t feel like I needed to go to her with any of it anymore. I’d aired everything and let off some steam and felt better about it all. And like… I fully acknowledged that I was acting like a woefully misunderstood wubbie jackass over the whole thing, because by the time I was done venting I’d figured out I totally _was_ in the wrong, she just didn’t _see_ that part…” 

Of course she didn’t. I ensured she didn’t. Why would I want her to see the _good_ things or the more _self-aware_ things you said? 

You sighed, and laid your head on the bar. (Yep. You were teetering on drunk.) 

“All she saw was what I said when I was mad,” you mourned wearily. “And I was focused so hard on explaining myself that I didn’t even get to bring up that there was more to the conversation than what she saw.” 

“What exactly did she say to make you so angry beforehand?” I asked, sipping primly at my cranberry juice. 

“Just the usual Barbara stuff, only a little amplified,” you sighed. “I can’t distance myself from my work like I should, I shouldn’t go for the detective’s exam because I can’t remove myself and I should wait until I _can_ to take it, I’m immature and I’m not good at adulting because I’m basically a nine-year-old in a grown-up’s body playing pretend with a grown-up job, that sort of thing.” Again, you sighed. “Honestly, I think I was just all pissed and indignant because she was right.” You snickered a little drunkenly. 

“She wasn’t,” I told you bluntly. “I never met someone so good at _adulting,_ as you put it. And with her talking like that, _guapo,_ it’s no wonder you’re so hard on yourself.” 

“I’m not _that_ hard on myself,” you insisted. “She’s not really hard on me, anyway, Cat, I mean… she _means_ well, you know? Like she always has good intentions. Like I said, she’s pretty much always right and is just really forthcoming about her thoughts, especially when she thinks I need to hear them. It’s just tough love, I guess, and I need that more than most people, right?” 

“What you _need_ is a word of praise now and then,” I said. “Did Barbara _ever_ praise you?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you said. “She praises me plenty, she just doesn’t give out compliments readily, is all.” You smiled with a fondness that turned my guts. “You’ve gotta _earn_ them from her. And when you do, they’re like _gold.”_

“She doesn’t give much of anything readily, from what I can tell,” I stated, and leaned toward you. “Does she.” 

“What do you mean?” you asked, and sat up, leaning your head on your hand. “Ugh. I think I’m drunk. The room’s all tilty…” 

I smiled, satisfied. “ _Cariño,_ I’ve never seen a person more obviously starved for affection and praise than you are, and for someone like you, who _needs_ affection of all kinds like air and water, that is a grave sin on the part of the universal order. And Barbara didn’t compliment you… well, ever, from what it sounds like, and she didn’t put out for you much, either, did she?” 

You sat up fully, and swayed a bit. You gestured emphatically. “That — is _not_ her fault, Catalina. That’s all on me.” 

“How?” I asked skeptically, inclining my head. 

“Well,” you said. “It’s just kind of… a long and potentially awkward story.” 

“Tell me,” I said. “I have time.” 

You downed the second shot of tequila that I had ordered you. 

“Well… After she recovered a bit following the attack and… you know, got the —” Here, you made the quote motions, “‘green light’ from the doctor, I think it was harder for her to adjust to it than she let on, like… I mean, we both knew going in it would be different, and I _tried_ making her feel good having sex, but… it didn’t help I felt like I was just _taking_ something, and never giving, you know? And she just wasn’t… I don’t know, very affectionate, or even open to affection for a while, and I didn’t want her to feel pressured, so I just… never asked her for it.” You were quiet for a moment. “We _did_ keep at it, though, you know, kind of at her pace and with her calling the shots, because we both knew it would just take some time. And I read _everything_ there was to read about how I could satisfy her, and I talked to some specialists on the Internet, too. So it _seemed_ like it would be okay…” You trailed off. 

“But?” I prompted. 

“Well, we had a good round, umm…” You rubbed at your neck. “A _really_ good round — just nice and spontaneous, and it seemed like we were figuring things out, like I did my thing and I kind of worked other things for her and we both hit the finish line, just in different ways —” You shook your head. “Sorry. TMI. Anyway…” You broke off momentarily, and ground your fingers into your forehead. “She wound up in the hospital with autonomic dysreflexia.” You laid your elbows on the table, and covered your face with your hands. “Autonomic dysreflexia, Cat.” 

“Well, Dickie, that’s not all that uncommon, is it?” I comfortingly squeezed your knee. 

You were quiet. You looked like you were about to cry — _really_ cry, not just tear up a little. 

“I felt _terrible_ ,” you murmured after a while. “I just felt terrible. We were kinda cavorting in pseudo-secrecy at her dad’s house in her room, and… it was like it went from cuddling and talking and enjoying the afterglow and feeling like everything would be okay to…” The tears came then, hard and fast. “She was so _confused_ all of a sudden, not knowing where she was and pouring sweat and saying she felt like her heart was going to fly out of her chest. I had to run downstairs in a goddamn _towel_ to get her dad so we could take Barbara to the ER…” You looked helplessly at me. “You know AD can lead to things like stroke and pulmonary edema and cardiac arrest? It can _kill_ you, Catalina. _I could have killed her._ And I had to sit in that hospital with her father, both of us knowing I’d put her there, and how. I was _so_ fucking ashamed.” 

I laid a hand on your arm. “Oh, _cariño,_ you didn’t put her there. AD can come from all sorts of triggers. You couldn’t have known that would happen.” 

“No, I did,” you said. “The doctors _gave_ us caveats, you know? If I’d just been — I don’t know, _gentler_ with her…” You let go a sigh. “Anyway… we both just had kind of a hard time with it after that. Me especially.” 

“Of course you did,” I told you. “Anyone would. It’s a terrifying thing to go through.” 

You nodded. “I mean, I was all right with other things, Cat, just… not so much the act itself? It wasn’t that I didn’t want to — I was just a little _scared_ to. I didn’t want to hurt her again. And then I think Barbara got a little frustrated with me, because she _did_ get to the point that she wanted to keep working on a normal sex life after a while, and I know it _hurt_ her that I… I just… couldn’t. Not right away.” You paused. “So… I guess I ended up hurting her, anyway.” 

You stared at the surface of the bar counter for a long, long while. 

Then you looked over at me with something like incredulity. “You know I never told _anyone_ about any of this before now? I didn’t even tell Wally. I just whined about being sexually frustrated and only gave him part of the story.” You chuckled mirthlessly. “He must’ve thought I was such a douche.” 

“Well, I’m glad you felt you could open up to me, sweetheart,” I told you gently, and again, squeezed your knee. “Why on earth did you keep this to yourself, though? It’s such a heavy burden…” 

You shook your head, and let go another sigh. “Because… I guess I just never wanted to say any of it out loud. Not even to myself. I failed her, Cat. I really did. And then I just _kept_ failing her.” 

“You didn’t fail anyone, _cariño,”_ I said, taking your hand. “Least of all Barbara. She failed you when she broke your trust.” 

“…I just can’t believe she’d do this,” you said, and looked fit to start crying again. “It’s just not like her. It’s not like her at all. She’s _never_ been mistrustful like that, I just don’t understand it…” You looked up at the multicolored lights that illuminated the shelves of alcohol behind the bar. “But… God, Catalina, I think I’m more upset by what she _saw._ I mean, that’s the reason I lashed out at her, it was just projecting because _I_ messed up. How will I _ever_ make this up to her or even explain it?” You sighed. “I can’t. It’s impossible. _I’ve lost her.”_

I studied you as you pressed your face into your hand, the tears streaming freely then, and felt the spark of anger in my gut fanned into a searing, determined flame. 

How could Barbara ever have been so cold and hateful and unforgiving toward you? _El Jesucristo,_ she’s even worse than I thought. You bent over backwards, jumped through hoops, all but sold your soul for that witch. And she shut you out, stonewalled you, only letting you in when it was convenient for her, just to boot you back out when you no longer suited her. She’s ungrateful, blind, entitled, cold-hearted, completely bloodless. She won the lottery, held the pick of the litter in her hands, found a prince who would love and care for her no matter _what_ happened and had _proven_ as much — and she threw you away like garbage, too proud, too conceited, too full of herself to accept your love, your selfless, endlessly giving love. A few barefaced words that she didn’t even bother to check the context behind (and that she ought to have known she totally deserved) threw her into a big, stupid tizzy — she didn’t have _any_ faith in you. She doesn’t even deserve your _friendship,_ Dick. 

So I decided in that moment that if that horrible, domineering _puta_ came within a hundred feet of you ever again, I would claw her ugly-ass freckled face off, and _enjoy_ it. I would protect you from that little _bruja_ with every last breath in my body, until my nails were worn to the quick and my teeth to the gums. How _dare_ she hurt and mistreat you like this? 

She would _never_ hurt you again, I determined. Never. I would not let her. 

“First of all, I can believe she’d do it,” I said, determined now to win you over to my side of this equation, even if it meant outright lying and playing to that falsehood. If that needed to be done to safeguard you from the witch’s gnarled mitts, so be it. “She was already hard on you — you said so yourself. If she was critical to begin with, that same behavioral pattern is bound to evolve into a suspicious mindset eventually, especially with a set of circumstances like the one she’s in. Everything she’s been through, it’s understandable, actually. But she was _wrong,_ Dick. Very wrong. You went to Wally, your friend, for advice in a low moment, and with all the stress you’re under, it’s no wonder. He’s your safe place, _querido._ Sure, we can argue there was a huge communication gap and that all of this could have been avoided if you’d just _talked_ to each other, but you yourself just said she was impossible to talk to, or at least that she made you feel uncomfortable approaching her. So what else were you going to do? Vent your thoughts to a diary with a little lock on it and a pen with a poofy top?” I shook my head. “Barbara was _dead wrong_ to dig into your private conversations — and honestly, doing so, she was playing with fire and she got burned.” I shrugged. “That’s all. You, on the other hand, are _right_ to be upset.” 

I figured I had you. That Barbara did not, in fact, violate your privacy doesn’t matter. She would have eventually, anyway. She’s just that type of person. 

You were silent, eyeing me, and then you shook your head. 

“No, Cat,” you murmured. “I just fucked up.” 

Christ, _cariño._ How determined _were_ you to punish yourself? 

“You didn’t,” I told you reassuringly. 

“I wish I could agree.” You inclined your head as you gazed intently at me. “Catalina.” 

“Hmm.” 

“Why are you so _nice_ to me?” you asked. “Really. Why?” 

I leaned toward you (ensuring I gave myself a good cleavage as I did) and again covered your hand with mine. “Because you deserve it, _cariño._ And because you are nice to everyone. And because you were the first to be nice to me in a long, long time. And because you should have kindness extended to you everywhere you go.” 

You finally smiled, and I _thrilled_ when you turned your hand upward, and laced your fingers in mine. You pressed lightly, and left your hand there a moment, our palms passing warmth and energy until you withdrew yours — slowly, with pronounced hesitation. 

“Now,” I said, “let’s forget everything that’s happened today and close out the world and just _enjoy_ the night. It’s _your_ night, birthday boy. Let’s get it started, huh?” 

“All right,” you said, scrubbing the last tear from your cheek. “If you say so. To staying whelmed?” 

I smiled. “To staying whelmed, _guapo.”_

Time for the next round — your birthday shots, we called them. This time, they were those shots that get lit on fire. 

I was dismayed (and I can’t lie, a little annoyed) when rather than shifting from somber to jocund, you looked perched on the edge of a crying jag. This was _not_ how I had planned for the night to go, coddling you as you wept your way through your booze-addled emotions — and I knew it was Barbara’s fault, always plaguing your mind with her overbearing presence. How long has she held you under her thumb like this and made you behave like her co-dependent indentured servant? 

It was then you conveniently took your ever trusting self to the restroom, and I decided to gamble a little. If you were going to let go of Barbara long enough to move on with your life, move onto _me,_ I had to cut the cards, and fast. You needed to feel good, to loosen up, to enjoy yourself and live your life. With me, by me. You’d had enough crying, enough wholly unwarranted self-condemnation, enough grieving, enough of your ex’s cloying influence. It was time to come up, not descend into a mire of self-pity, _querido._

I know Bangar, the owner of Elbows, through Blockbuster. He cobbles a bit of a tidy living pushing some of Desmond’s drugs while keeping up his bar. He also keeps a cache of sketchy alcohol on hand in a little cupboard beneath the lit, elevated liquor wall. 

This was either going to send you off to La La Land, that destination of narcoleptic drunks the world over, or it was going to get you to Cloud Nine. The former, well, I figured I’d take care of you, and it would merely prolong the inevitable, anyway, a concept I could swallow (it’s a good thing I’m a patient girl, Dick.) The latter was well worth risking the former. 

So I ordered a shot of Spirytus Rektyfikowany and a tequila sunrise — your last drinks of the night. 

You came back, and sat down. You looked tolerably rejuvenated, and by your movements, I saw you weren’t quite as drunk as I’d suspected. 

_Perfecto._

“You look refreshed,” I commented, smiling. 

“Yeah, I splashed some water on my face and smacked myself a couple times,” you said, then took note of the glass and shot. “Aw, you ordered me another drink. Thanks, babe, you’re always so thoughtful.” 

You downed both without further ado, and completely, smugly satisfied, I sat back triumphantly. 

And now, here you are, wobbling a bit on your seat, your demeanor gone from moody and sad to goofy and cute under the amended trajectories of conversation and the inroad of alcohol. The song shifts, shuffling to a remix I’ve actually seen on your running playlist, and my heart shivers in anticipation. 

It’s time. 

“Dickie, I think you’re drunk,” I tell you over the pulse of the music. 

“I’m not drunk,” you protest joyfully, and about fall off your chair. “I just can’t _sit_ properly or _see_ like… totally straight —” 

You’re still giggling as I hop off my stool and come to you, taking your hand. I smile, gratified when you readily slide off yours and stumble into my arms. I could not have planned that better if I’d choreographed it. You hug me and nestle your face into my shoulder. I feel the tip of your nose and your chin as you take in the scent of my perfume. Jasmine, rose, and vanilla — a scent I made myself at a local soap shop, an aromatherapeutic mixture that is an aphrodisiac _powerhouse._

“What’s all this for, _querido?”_ I ask you, taking in and relishing your nearness. 

“You’re my friend, Cat,” you murmur. You stroke my hair now, the feeling sending millions of happy shivers through my nerves. God, to feel you touch me like this… “Why are you always so amazing to me?” 

Ah, _mi amor_ , this will be cakewalk from here. My smile spreads to a grin, and a contented thrill lances through me. 

“You make it easy, _hermoso,”_ I tell you. “Mmm… You seem a little happier. You know what that means, don’t you?” 

“That you’re my best friend and I just want to hug you until the end of time?” 

I chuckle. “It means we ought to go _dance,_ you _idiota. ¿Bailar conmigo, no?”_

You pull back, your eyes comically widening. “Uhh…” 

I drop a handful of exceedingly large bills on the counter for Bangar (sorry, Mateo), and then lead you onto the dance floor with me among the other sweaty mid-week club-goers. 

Wednesday nights and DJ Hixxy remixes tend to bring out more ravers than drunks, and indeed it’s more X-heads than inebriates that we now share the floor with. The partiers are definitely rolling at this hour, dancing wildly and uninhibitedly. Excellent. It will provide a good cover for potential PDAs. 

“I feel compelled to tell you, Cat — the last time I danced was to Minuet 3 at the Wayne Foundation’s charity gala thing with Kate Kane and she was _not_ impressed. And not just because she’s a Gold Star.” 

I laugh. “You’re a gymnast, _cariño._ I refuse to believe that you can’t master a techno grind. It’s about as basic as it gets.” 

“Fair enough,” you say. “I just hope I’m not too drunk to be trusted operating human machinery.” 

“Then I’ll operate you,” I say, grinning. “You trust me, don’t you?” 

You’re quiet a moment, then surprise me when you lay a hand on my cheek, your thumb at my orbital. 

“I trust you, Catalina,” you murmur, barely audible over the pulsing music. 

I lean into your palm, wholly, entirely satisfied now. 

“But I am _not_ responsible for your broken feet tomorrow,” you add, laughing and lowering your hand. 

I smile, turn, and press my back to your front. “There — how’s that for insurance?” 

Again, you laugh, and I can feel the motion as it causes your torso to shake deliciously. Then, I inhale with a thrill of pleasure as you lay your hands on my waist. At last. _It’s time._

I start a rhythm, rocking to the music, encouraging you to follow, and you do so with abandon, matching me, holding me. Your hands rove a little, but respectfully keep to G-rated spots — even drunk, even backed up and horny, you are still a good boy. Bat training must truly have instilled in you some remarkable restraint. 

“Don’t be so shy,” I tell you, taking your hands, and drawing them around my middle. I smile with gratification when you immediately envelop me in your arms, and press your face to my cheek. _Buen chico,_ good boy. 

Dancing is not unlike lovemaking, _chulo._ There’s a reason it’s considered a means of courtship, of wooing, of romance. If you think about it, it _is_ rather a form of non-penetrating sex, of foreplay — bodies work and move together in tandem, energy is stoked and shared, barriers are lowered and bubbles dissolved to make way for physical and emotional intimacy. A subtextual purpose lies behind the many dance scenes in romance movies. 

And I swear, _mi amor…_ only _you_ could master a techno grind — completely drunk — and make it _graceful._ How are you such a deific figure among lowly humans? And my god, I _love_ the feeling of your lithe, solid body, the planes of its athletic form as they mold perfectly to mine, bending and pulling like water. The shape of us maps a constellation that rises into the cosmos, this moment forever to transcend time and space, immortalized in the landscape of the stars. 

My middle burns, my legs shake, my arms vibrate. I can _feel_ my breath as it comes in fevered, erratic bursts, my heart as it rattles and thrums against my ribs. Our sweat mingles, worked up by the exertion of constant motion to the uptempo throbbing of the music. Your palms rest briefly on the bow of my ribcage, just beneath my breasts, cruelly teasing me. I twist and flex, inciting your hands to slide, bringing them tantalizingly close to where I want them to go, but still, you do not touch me. 

I arch my back, press my cheek to yours, reach up to cup your neck with my hand. I have been patient long enough. I have waited for months now. I _refuse_ to wait one moment more. Your breath teases my upper lip for the barest second before you turn your head, angling your face into my hair behind my ear. I can’t help but smile. As always, you are a well-behaved Boy Scout (or you are trying to be one. The bulge of your erection against my back suggests otherwise.) 

I bow my spine, this time, allowing my lips to brush your neck, feathering over the surface of your skin. I _feel_ the shudder as it rocks your entire body, your hands as they press reflexively on my ribs. I grind against the ridge of your hardness, and lift until I reach your ear. 

“Don’t be afraid to touch me, _mi amor,”_ I murmur. 

You go entirely still in this moment, pausing, your chest swelling against my back. Your hands quiver. I pull to the side until I can look you in the eye. 

And by the way you look at me now, the expression in those blue, blue eyes — so intense, so fiery, so _wanting —_ I know now that you are _mine_ , Dick Grayson. All mine. _Mia,_ a hundred percent. _You are mine._

I turn, facing you now. I press myself to you, stretching my legs ever so slightly. Our lips are barely inches apart, my breasts are pressed to your chest, your hardness strains against my abdomen through the confines of our bothersome clothing. 

Neither of us moves as the dance floor pulses around us in its kaleidoscope of lights and piercing symphony of repetitive sound. Both of us behold each other, seeing the other differently now, the entire world reordering itself to integrate this whole new way of seeing one another. I sidle just a little closer. 

“Cat,” you murmur, again, barely audible over the pounding music. 

I lift, and purr into your ear. “What, _cariño.”_

You’re silent, your hands shaking on my hips. 

“…We can’t,” you breathe. 

I edge even closer. “Can’t what?” 

A pause, punctuated by the reverberating throb of the bass. 

“We can’t do this,” you say. 

I brush your ear with the tip of my nose. “What, baby.” 

“Catalina… please. Stop.” You twitch in your jeans. “It’s… this is wrong.” 

“Why,” I breathe into your ear. 

“…God, I want you so bad right now,” you say, your words tumbling out wild and desperate. “I want you, but…” 

I nuzzle the heavy, satiny hair that falls over your ear, relishing its softness and luxury. 

“No buts, _mi amado._ You may have me,” I coo into your ear, teasing the lobe with my lips. 

You shake harder. “I — _we_ can’t.” 

I move my lips to your neck. “Mm?” 

“Cat, we can’t do this,” you say, your voice tormented, even though you lift your head and _let_ me move my mouth across your skin. “I want to… but we _can’t.”_

I’m kissing your throat now, taking in the scent of the aftershave I love so dearly, the scent of you, of your unique essence that rises beneath its top notes. Pointedly, I pass a hand down your side, snake it between our bodies, and in the realization of _so_ many dreams and fantasies hitherto this moment, I caress your erection through the denim of your jeans for the briefest second. Your cock jerks beneath my touch, your hips lift, your breath catches. 

“Cat, _please,”_ you whisper. “We can’t. It’s wrong. I’m your mentor, I just broke up a few hours ago, I’m drunk — _we can’t.”_

“We can,” I tell you, “and we are. You are of drinking age. You are single. It’s your birthday. And we are both adults.” 

I draw back, looking into your beautiful, tortured eyes. Your lips are parted, your face flushed. Devastating, _cariño._ My heart goes to fire and water all at once, pounding wildly in my chest, hard enough that I know you can feel it from where you stand. I can certainly feel yours. 

“You _do_ want me,” I say, “…don’t you?” 

You’re silent. Again, I step to you, and grind against you, locking one leg around yours. I nip at the lobe of your ear. 

“Let go, _mi amor,”_ I say. “Just let go. Don’t think. Open your heart to me, baby. When’s the last time you sat back and just let someone take care of you?” 

“Cat,” you whisper beseechingly. 

“Let me care for you,” I murmur, now stroking your hardness through your clothing, savoring your response as you lean your head back, your jaw slackening as you pant. “It’s just for tonight… I won’t tell anyone… It’ll be our _secret,_ huh? So… _vivir conmigo. Live_ with me tonight, baby. _Live.”_

You hold my gaze for a series of seconds, thoughts and emotions flitting frantically across the lapis pools of your eyes like startled fish, your hands shaking still harder where they rest on my hips. You are moving with me even as I touch you. 

And then, oh, holy rapture of all the saints in heaven — you angle your face, your nose brushing mine. And that is all the cue I need. 

I stop stroking and _meet_ you, with the sense that our souls touch and our hearts fuse. 

Your lips are hot, soft, every bit as delicious as I imagined. Your mouth opens, and then, with a soft moan, _you kiss me._

And you are a _good_ kisser, even drunk — just as I knew you would be. Ah, _cariño,_ do you know how often I have imagined this moment? And this, the reality, _Christ,_ none of my fantasies could ever compete. I feel your tongue as it quests its way into my mouth, licking softly at my palate, roving over the length of my own tongue as I match your motions. You are tender, loving, affectionate; your hand moves to lightly cup my face, your thumb tracing my cheek as your fingers curl softly in my hair. 

How could _anyone_ give you up, _mi amor —_ how could anyone bear to let you go when you can give them _this?_ All that I receive from you is sweet, guileless _magic_. I wrap my arms around your neck, and kiss you, wordlessly communicating to you that I will love you unconditionally, _mi amante,_ my lover — now and forever. _Lo prometo._ You are mine, and I am yours. No one will ever hurt you again — I _protect_ what is mine. 

Your kisses intensify, your lips going taut, your tongue probing deeper, your teeth tugging at my lower lip. I return the favor, only I bite harder, and relish the sound of your responsive groan. 

When we break away, breathing and gazing at one another, I unspeaking, you with one winded “Whoah,” I take your hand. 

“Let’s go, _guapo,”_ I murmur to you. 

And you just wordlessly follow me as I break through the teeming sea of ravers on the dance floor. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Excelente: Excellent  
> Querido: Darling, dear (generally lover specific, FYI)  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Mi caballero blanco: My white knight  
> Guapo: Good-looking  
> Hermoso: Handsome  
> Si, mi profesor: Yes, my teacher  
> Claro: Sure, of course  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Puta: Bitch, whore  
> Bruja: Witch  
> Idiota: Idiot (m, f)  
> Bailar conmigo, no?: Dance with me, huh?  
> Buen chico: Good boy  
> Mia: Mine  
> Mi amado: My beloved  
> Vivir conmigo: Live with me  
> Mi amante: My lover  
> Lo prometo: I promise
> 
> **Autonomic dysreflexia, in a nutshell, is a dangerous spike in blood pressure in response to overstimulation in areas of the body that express chronic loss of function.


	8. Atropa Belladonna (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone...
> 
> (Possibly goodbye, everyone...)
> 
> This chapter was tough, underwent a lot of agonizing and rewrites and tweaks and changes. It was not fun to do, and I did NOT enjoy this process. Normally, smut is a lot of fun (providing you y'know LIKE the pairing you're working with and the consent ain't dubious), but this just... wasn't fun in the remotest sense of the word.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: This is smutty, sure, but it's smut under EXTREMELY DUBIOUS CONSENT, regardless of Dick's potentially unexpected headspace. The fact is, regardless of whether's he's an enthusiastically willing participant in these events, his given consent is significantly altered by the fact that Catalina preyed on his present weaknesses (exaggerated by months of feeling disconnected and the shock of his breakup), and deliberately set the whole thing up from the beginning to play out in this way.
> 
> I axed the smut twice during this chapter's progress. However, my beta/BFF and I agreed there are three critical takeaways that can't be done justice when glossed over in retrospect. *damn it* So... looks like it's here to stay. I feel compelled to mention that it is NOT intended to be titillating -- more a charged moment between Dick and Cat after months of close proximity and amping, below-the-surface sexual tension, and a FRANTIC realization of a mountingly desperate need on Dick's side of things.
> 
> Hopefully the police work is tolerably accurate, a text message from my stepdad and mainlining Dexter (and who knows how accurate that show actually is) only go so far, ha ha. XD Not to mention wanting to keep this part of the plot which is suuubtly altered (ffffttttt) unfolding gradually... BUWAAAA. <3
> 
> Spanish to English in the endnote. :-)
> 
> Well, I'd say happy reading, but somehow, I doubt that'll be the case, fffffffttttt. XD Still. Love to all. :-)
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF

**CHAPTER 8**

Inside Catalina’s house, the second the door closes, all bets are off. 

The part of my brain that still functions on a rational, thinking level, seeming to hover somewhere above me like a balloon on a string, observing everything as it unfolds below, _screams_ at me that this is a grave, grave error — that if I do this, I no longer reserve the right to call myself a nice guy or a good person. The line that will have defined that territory will be miles, leagues, parsecs behind me. Even while I know in some banal, instinctive way that this is _completely_ incogitable, that I stand to violate the boundary between mentor and student — a boundary that I held _sacred_ before, that my heart beats to the cadence of _Barbara-Barbara-Barbara…_ I’m somehow helpless to halt the train I’m on. The brakes are cut, the tracks infinite, the motion perpetual. 

I’m drunk — but I’m still present enough to know what I’m doing. Why I’m letting this happen, why I’m opening myself up to this — my shadow self, my dark, need-driven animus. Why I don’t care if this is right, or even condonable. 

It was officially over from the moment Catalina touched and kissed me at Elbows. Hell, it was over when she _reached out_ to me, period. My body was all but programmed to respond to her from the first moment she opened her mouth and a kind word came out — no matter how wrong this is. 

I’ve been lonely. Lonely, and although I’ll never say it, _needy._ Isolated. Starved for affection — of _all_ kinds. And I can’t remember the last time I heard a kind word other than from Catalina. 

Catalina knows me, understands me, accepts me. She never judges me. She is always attuned to me, aware of my needs as if by magic, never criticizing, always caring. She is unconditionally my friend, unreserved, above board, the first friend in a long, long time to encourage me to let go and just allow myself to be taken care of — and now, I’m going to let her. I love Cat, and I trust her — even if I’m not _in love_ with her. This connection is an addiction, an elixir that I need to survive, born of dark origins and carrying its own healing power. Atropa belladonna. 

So whether or not I’m falling-down drunk doesn’t seem to matter. Whether or not this is a colossal fuck-up doesn’t seem to matter, either, and neither does the question of whether I stand to break three hearts, including my own, in less than twenty-four hours by doing this. If I let any of it matter, I return to a desolate life as a remote, lonely island — and I can’t go one more hour marooned and famished. I can’t even go one more _minute._

So I don’t think, I don’t worry, I don’t question. I just do. 

Catalina kisses me in the foyer, her lips ardent and warm. Christ, I _need_ an endless succession of those fierce kisses to follow, need her touch to appease my begging, pent-up nerves. Her fingers deftly undo the buttons on my shirt, peeling it away from my torso, tugging the undershirt over my head. She gently grasps the chain around my neck, the one with my parents’ rings on it, and draws me to her to meet my lips again. I somehow make it up the steps backwards without falling on my drunk ass as she all but herds me to her bedroom. 

She kisses me all the way through the door and urges me onto the surface of her bed, her tongue in my mouth, her hands on my hips, her fingers moving to the buckle of my jeans. They’re off in seconds. Her hands run up my abdominals and over my chest, her lips move to my throat and chest, my belly. A shock of gooseflesh breaks out over my skin in tandem with the rushes of tingling voltage that lightning out from every point that her lips and fingers meet. 

Oh, God, I need this. _I need this._ I have for _so long._ When was the last time I was touched without it feeling like something compulsory, some hollow obligation? When did I last feel that whoever was doing the touching actually _wanted_ to touch me? And every cell in my body is drawn to her in an insistent magnetism, pulled to her call by an unstoppable, unseen force. 

Catalina’s touch is the sum total of every purpose of every atom in the universe. Her hands are smooth and gentle, communicating an encompassing nurturing that I’ve unknowingly yearned for and sought for longer than I can even fathom at this point. Her lips are sweet and soft, speaking a similarly longed for admiration and passion. All of it is a heady, intoxicating cocktail that infuses into my soul. I treasure every second she spends touching me, exploring the planes of my half-naked body, teasing and charting every inch of me her lips and fingers can find. She smiles tangibly against my skin when she comes upon a ticklish spot at my ribs. My head, swimming in slow, boozy circles, falls back with a thump atop the mattress when her lips tug with a stinging, tingling shiver at my nipple. My spine bows, raising my chest into that rousing sensation, wanting more. 

Catalina rises briefly, shuffles out of her skirt, draws her top over her head. I make a completely stupid, involuntary sound at what I see. The sight of her ethereal form in its naughty undies is like witnessing the otherworldly visitation of a dark angel or sukkubus, inhumanly beautiful, wholly perfect. The sheen of her hair is like ebony satin in the dim lambency of the string lights that hang from the far wall, her features soft and diffuse. My breathing, already rapid, accelerates. 

Her fingers trail down the linea of my lower abdominals, suffusing my tremulous skin with a sensuous rapture. Her shining hair is mussed from tangling my fingers in it, her eyes are smokey and intense, her lips are full and gleaming. I’m panting where I lie, my chest and abdomen pulsing with my fevered respiration, my hips lifting, seeking, _needing_ touch, desperate for it after so much time spent in deprivation. My erection is strangled in the stifling confines of my boxers, somehow miraculously immune to even the concept of whiskey dick (or in this case, tequila dick.) 

“You like what you see, _mi amor?”_ she murmurs, and before I can respond, she presses a hand to my hardness through the stretching cotton. She chuckles, a sultry blurble, then slips the last bastion of my undergarments from my hips. “Hmm, I guess so…” 

I’m leaking pre-cum and straining in visible motion as Catalina bows down over me, and breathes over my sex in a warm, caressing balm that unspools a moan from my throat. 

“Oh, even your cock is gorgeous,” she purrs, and I could cry to hear her say that. I don’t get the chance, though, because next thing I know, her mouth is on me. 

I don’t moan this time, or cry — I _bellow._ My hips go up as though shot off a spring. They’re going to need a new phrase for what she’s doing, because this goes astronomical units beyond plain old _oral sex._

I can’t even recall the last time I had a blow job — and right now, as she closes her lips around me, nursing me, drawing in all of my length until I hit her throat, I see through space and time, images of the lustrous cosmos and unfurling nebulae and the blooming evolution of life flitting across my field of vision. I’m lifting and canting, probing deeper when she flexes around me, lighting supernovae in my blurring vision. I run my fingers through and grasp her hair, seconds from busting it when her tongue fans around me. Thanks to the alcohol, though, I don’t come — even when I think I’m about to finish. Instead, the waiting consummation just seems to keep _building._ This orgasm, when it finally hits, is going to blow me to freaking smithereens. 

She pulls back, letting my cock slip from her mouth in a slow, torturing slide that sets my entire middle on fire and draws a sad, pitiful whimper from my vocal cords. Catalina lifts up, straddling me. She ditched her panties at some point that I didn’t notice, I realize with a tremor as she draws her fingers tantalizingly across my shoulders, then down the length of my arms in a trail of more gooseflesh. Taking one hand, she guides it to the cleft between her thighs, rocking her hips, bringing my fingers into the silken constriction of her balmy warmth. Her eyelids flutter and her head lolls — 

I need more than this — more than just touching her. I _have_ to have her, taste her, _know_ her — 

I sit up, take her by the waist, yank her down to me, and all but _swallow_ her by her womanhood, plunging my tongue into her, lapping hard at her ingress, flicking rapidfire at her clit, relishing the sound of her responsive squeal. Her quads tighten around my ears, threatening to pop my skull. She’s moving, gasping, begging, her fingers locked in my hair. Every little praise she utters as I pleasure her is like a panacea and an aphrodisiac all at the same time, healing every last one of my hurts and stoking the already incinerating fire that blazes within me. I keep going with untrammeled enthusiasm until her orgasm strikes like a slamming anvil, wracking her entire body, each wave rolling into my own form and setting every live-wired nerve to still higher voltages of electricity. 

She quivers, exhales, and crumples aside, her fingers still laced in my hair. I pass a hand over my mouth, and angle over her as she reclines, moaning softly, meeting my lips with fervor, each of us tasting one another. She runs her fingers over my back, the tracing of her nails shivering across my skin. I work to free her body of the bra she wears, wanting to feel nothing but her skin as I mold myself to her, wanting to fuse together with nothing between us. I’m unfortunately drunk enough that I struggle with its hooks. She laughs and finishes the job for me, and then I freeze, and just stare like a creeper. 

Oh, she’s beautiful. Just _beautiful._ Her breasts are soft and full, emphasizing her graceful collarbones and slender, shapely arms. I fill my hands and lips with them, then my mouth with hers, and bear down slowly, the wetness of her folds caressing my erection in a slick, velvety hold. 

I don’t stop kissing her when, with a thrill, I feel her touch as she grasps me, guiding me to her until I glide into her wet, burning heat with a hiss of caught breath. I groan into her parted mouth, momentarily overwhelmed by the unexpected spear of emotion that cuts through me as I integrate the feeling of being inside her, of her acceptance, her sweetest embrace. I keep my lips pressed to Catalina’s, holding her, purling together, savoring this connection to her, and the cathartic sense that I’m _finally_ no longer disconnected and alone. 

I roll my hips, a little clumsily at first, overcome by the pulverizing sensations that pulse through my body. This is going to be humiliatingly short — it’s almost more than I can bear, sliding in and out of her, each pass bringing the fires of hell and pleasures of heaven. But even out of practice, I’m drunk — so the finish line, rather than coming closer, keeps moving farther and farther away. 

Maybe not a bad thing — I’d probably have busted in my pants just _looking_ at Catalina otherwise. 

So I just keep going on and on until I can’t see through the fireworks and sparklings of light that obscure my vision with each wave of sensation that sweeps over me. I’m thrusting so hard that the speed of motion defies the laws of physics and Catalina wails with each throe, gripping the edge of the mattress behind her. I dimly wonder if I’m hurting her, and in some befuddled way if I should slow down. 

“Harder, baby, scream for me, _scream_ for me —” she gasps. 

Oh. Well, hearing this, I don’t slow down, and I do scream, my voice grating my throat. God, she’s tight and hot and _so wet —_ I can’t _not_ scream. The bed screeches with me like a startled banshee, the headboard knocking the wall behind it, all the sounds roving through my body and blending with my voice and hers. I’m finally close — _so close —_ any moment now — 

Catalina rises suddenly, planting her hands against my chest, twisting her body. It takes me a second to catch up to what she’s trying to accomplish, given that my muddled brain is like a bullet train past light speed on a one-way trajectory, but I get it eventually, and she succeeds in turning me to my back atop the comforter. She brackets my hips, and in one effortless motion, again takes me into her, rising and falling, bringing me back to the brink in a matter of seconds. I vocalize like a professional. 

I still don’t finish, I only amp up one more level, my gut a blazing, magmic coil, shivering with strain, hopped to burst at any moment. It would be a terrible torment at any other time, but now, it’s utter _magic_ — pure devilry and black art that holds me captive in a grip of white-hot ecstasy. I turn my face into the comforter, desperate and fraught, moaning and lifting my hips, ebbing and flowing with Catalina as she accelerates her rhythm. I move my gaze to her, helplessly arrested by the sight of her over me, unthinkably, unimaginably angelic, gorgeous. Her breasts lift as her back arches, her hair falls across her arms and over her shoulders, her fingers weave into mine, drawing one hand up to clasp her cheek. She turns her face into my palm, and the feeling of her breath as it kisses my flesh is nothing shy of supernatural. I rise, locking my arms under hers, sitting up and rocking with her, gasping and moaning with each motion. I meet her lips, our breath exchanged in an impassioned fervor. 

“When you come, _mi amor,”_ she breathes as our tempo quickens, “when you come, you come in me, _come in me,_ baby —” 

_Oh, bad idea, Dickie, bad idea,_ way _up there on the list of bad ideas —_

Bobbing about in frantic protest is once again the logical part of my brain on its balloon string, screaming that this madcap escapade is beyond ill-advised and probably one of the worst ideas of all time, but I can’t listen to it, I _have_ to come inside her, _I have to,_ my entire _life_ depends on it — 

And when I do finally come, I come _screaming —_ the orgasm so explosive and violent that my vision blackens and my body goes to pieces as though caught in an incendiary blast. It goes on for what seems a rapturous lifetime, easily the most prolonged and powerful climax I’ve ever experienced, every flare of feeling surging through me in neverending, sequential bursts. Catalina just keeps rocking, tightening around me, moving as I leap and pulse, wringing me dry until I _should_ have nothing left — but even then, I’m _still_ coming, my body shivering with each jolt. 

I press myself to her, bracing myself in her arms as the enormous peak slowly, reluctantly rescinds, its tides gradually lapping back, finally leaving me bewildered, dizzy, and floating, my head whirling upward as though caught in a slow-moving but insistent funnel. My vision goes dark. 

I rest against Catalina with no concept of time, relishing the feeling of her fingers as they softly trace my spine, the gentle, loving touch of her fingertips seeming to realign my body’s stuttering, disordered energies. I grow cold as the sweat on my skin cools. I cuddle closer to her, absorbing the warmth and comfort of her nearness. 

I don’t know how long she holds me for, stroking my back, every so often kissing my cheek and temple, running her fingers through my hair. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Time is lost on me, no longer seeming to have any place in this pocket of existence, this little world inside her room with its purple walls and string lights and band posters, the leftovers of her happier, more innocent years locked like a testament within this tiny space. I realize she’s whispering to me, sweet praises and nothings in intermittent Spanish. I stay curled in her arms, still inside her although I’ve gone soft. 

It’s when my stomach twists and turns, threatening a push upward, causing me to open my eyes and catch sight of the last flurry of heather snow falling from the gloaming over the neighborhood through the window, that the shroud of post-orgasmic torpor sluggishly begins at last to fall away like a sticky, cleaving garment. It sheds itself piecemeal, one bit at a time, giving way for my still drunken emotions to roost, for time to recommence its passage. 

My head whirls in circles with my stomach. My limbs go fuzzy and weak. My body turns to wet cement. And I realize with a thrumming, watery pang what I’ve done. What’s just happened. 

Now, now I’m not just doing. Now, _I’m thinking._

And even through the clinging, muddy veil of drunkenness, reality sinks in with its cruel, bitter, gouging bite. 

With it, the crushing, sickening shame all at once chokes off my breathing in an enormous lump that bulges in my throat, and I spontaneously burst into tears. 

“Oh, _cariño,_ what’s wrong?” Catalina murmurs softly to me, cradling my face against her shoulder with one hand, drawing me closer to her. One hand strokes my hair. I’m still connected to her, and the notion repulses me with an overwhelming, nauseating guilt and self-hatred. I shift, finally withdrawing from her, and then feel like I’m maybe one second from getting sick. Unable to stop, even if it threatens vomiting, I bawl childishly and unabashedly, clinging to Cat as though she’s a rope thrown to me in a tossing sea. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so, so sorry,” I sob raggedly into her bare skin. “Catalina, _I’m so sorry —”_

What did I just do — 

What did I just do — what have I done — 

“Oh, baby, don’t be sorry,” she whispers. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, _mi amor,_ nothing. Don’t cry.” 

I have _everything_ to be sorry for — _everything._ I sob so hard my stomach starts hitching. 

“I’m sorry, Cat,” I bawl helplessly, over and over, like a litany. “I’m so sorry —” 

What the _hell_ have I done — 

And even as Catalina shushes me and holds me, I sob all the way up until everything diffuses into black, gone pitch dark under the falling hammer of unconsciousness. 

xxxxx 

“Dick.” 

Something’s shaking me, slowly lifting me up to the surface of wakefulness through the blackwater of a barren sleep. 

“Dick. Wake up, _cariño.”_

I open my eyes, and my head _explodes._

“Take it easy,” I hear Catalina’s voice say, pulsing in spears of agony through my pounding skull. I sense her hand on my bare shoulder. “You’re bound to be hungover.” 

I try sitting up when the shockwaves recede, certain I’ll find the spattered remains of my skull and brains all over the place when I manage to get upright, but I fail miserably in the endeavor when an unseen polo mallet whacks me upside the temple and lays me back out again. I sink with a grunt into the pillow beneath me, and slowly press a lead-heavy hand to my head. 

When the overpowering throbbing dissipates (somewhat), I try again, opening my eyes, willing my surroundings to come into focus. My stomach turns in wild circles. 

Catalina sits on the edge of the bed, hovering over me, her lips turned up in a smile simultaneously sympathetic and wry. 

And all at once, everything catches up to me and knocks me flat all over again, this time on my back atop the pillow. 

_Oh, Christ, last night happened —_ The words flit through my mind in a horrified gasp. _It happened, you didn’t dream it —_

“Well. _Buenos dias, guapo,”_ she says, and sits me up, a significant feat, given that one wrong move and I’ll hurl all over the place. “It’s 6:30 — I’m assuming you didn’t call off work today.” 

I make the catastrophic error of attempting to shake my head, and Catalina clucks a bit. 

“Oh, _pobrecito,”_ she murmurs. “Here.” 

She presses a cup of coffee into my hand. I barely register it, still clutching my pounding temple. 

“Now drink this and get dressed, _querido,”_ Cat tells me, and kisses my forehead. “I’ll give you a ride to the station, huh?” 

Too sick to immediately piece together what the heck is happening right now, I grunt something of an affirmative. Cat is handing me my clothes — neatly folded and smelling fresh enough that I suspect they’ve been washed. When did she find the time to do that, I wonder ponderously, and why? 

Glancing out the window, I see the first light of dawn diffusing the darkness above the horizon, the sky overhead a tired, muted charcoal. It’s more light than my eyes can take, sending bolts through my temples. I can’t see much through the frosty panes from this angle, only the bare branches of a tree, the nondescript rooftop of what appears to be an adjacent house, and the cloudy sky. 

I move to slide out of bed, only to hit the ground on my knees as the crushing pain in my skull fells me again. I heave, once, twice, and then a third time with mounting violence. When I don’t immediately find somewhere to get sick into, Cat heroically shows up to guide me to the garish, seizure-inducing orange and white bathroom. I vomit until my stomach hurts, every motion threatening to shatter my delicate, pulsating skull like an eggshell. 

I flush, fall onto my bare ass atop the tiled floor, and take a series of deep, meditative breaths, in my nose, out my mouth, the way that both Dinah and Bruce taught me, as Catalina speaks softly to me, steadying me with one hand on my arm. I put forth a Herculean effort to get it together. 

“Sorry, Cat,” I whisper finally, my voice weak and struggling. 

Jeez. I haven’t been properly hungover since my twenty-first birthday, and that had _nothing_ on this. It’s not as bad as the food poisoning I got on Rann once (I legit had moments where I thought I was dying), but it’s pretty damn close. 

_“Esta bien, novio,”_ she tells me, running her fingers through my hair, brushing it off my sweaty forehead. “I knew you wouldn’t be feeling well this morning. Do you remember getting sick last night?” 

Uncustomarily shy and embarrassed about my nakedness and only more so after this humiliating reminder of the prior evening’s events, I take the boxers and pull them on. Okay. Step one. 

“Yeah,” I mumble unhappily, my voice shaking under the strain of nausea. 

I do — unfortunately. Most of last night plays itself out in spotty bits and pieces, but all of these little chunks are cohesive enough to form a comprehensible whole, even if the edges of the snapshot memories are weak and flimsy — something of a brownout. I’d woken up sometime after initially passing out and promptly gotten sick all over myself and Catalina’s bedroom floor. She had to help me into the tub in this same epileptic orange bathroom, where she hosed me off with the detachable showerhead while I blubbered and bellyached about God-knows-what and then wrapped me up in a towel. When she put me back to bed and turned her attention to the floor, I went off on a big, long crying jag until I passed out again. 

Sitting on the bathroom floor, I look over at her, feeling like a totally reprehensible piece of shit. How the _hell_ do I even begin to apologize? There’s _so much_ to apologize and make up for that I don’t even know where to start. It’s like being told to dig up Mt. Everest and be handed a teaspoon. 

“Cat, I am _so_ sorry for everything,” I mumble. 

…As good a start as any. 

She shakes her head. “Don’t be, silly boy — you’re not the first person I’ve had to take care of drunk. At least you had a good time before it all went downhill, right?” 

I grimace, and focus hard on my jeans. 

Yeah, I don’t know if I’d call it a good time. When you’re drunk and all the walls are down, it’s easy to awaken to a long-time, deep-seated, desperate need, and be all justified about everything you’re doing, roll with the moment, and just enjoy whatever it brings you. It’s when you wake up and reality crashes in that you realize the time you had was _not_ good at all — that you just created a blast radius about fifty miles wide with a string of casualties strewn across it with your _good time._

However, I don’t have the heart to convince Catalina of this — not until I’ve come up with something of a plan on how to go about damage control, which might seriously wind up including signing myself up for castration. I can’t _believe_ I allowed last night to happen — frankly, if some junkie busts a cap in my ass later, it’ll only be my just desserts. 

First things first. I’ll chew that food later. I need to compartmentalize the situation at hand into manageable pieces, and for right now, I need to worry about getting to work. 

I pull on my jeans, step two. Shirt and button-down, step three. Deep breath, step four. Borrow some Listerine from Cat, step five. Okay. 

I follow Catalina out of the bathroom and down the steps. She swipes a bag off the counter as I gingerly lace up my Converse and grab my coat. I wish my head would just explode and get it over with. 

The drive to the station is spent mostly unspeaking with the Ramones for background noise. The silence otherwise is catastrophically uncomfortable for me, rife with my nerves, hangover, and mulling over of various scenarios on how I can have a good, honest talk with Cat later about what happened last night. For her part, she seems content enough, something that simultaneously stresses and appeases me. 

We pull into the station at 6:58. I have two minutes to get to the locker room and change into my spare uniform, and holy shit-fuck, I need a shower — _God,_ I envy Wally. It’s probably not happening. As I go to open the door, Cat hands me the bag she’d brought with her. 

“Hangover care package,” she explains with a wink. “I figure you’ll need it.” 

“Aw, you shouldn’t have,” I tell her kindly, mustering a half-smile. “I kind of _deserve_ the punishment of a hangover today…” 

“You certainly do not,” she chides me. “Now. Text me?” 

“You got it.” I open the door. 

“Hey,” she says as I slide one leg out of the car. 

I turn to her, and she pointedly taps her cheek. 

Oh, boy. 

I obligingly lean over, kiss her cheek, and get the hell out of the car as fast as I can without making it obvious I’m attempting a quick, shamefaced escape as much as rushing to make it into work on time. 

I end up changed into my spare uniform and in the bullpen a whopping thirty seconds late — egregious by my usual work at the BPD standards. First email of the day has certain detectives and officers, myself and Gannon included, convening with Amy in the pen where we’ll go over a building case and be given specific assignments to assist detectives on. 

“Well,” Amy says as I burst through the door, still bearing my hangover care package from Catalina and trying to situate my collar and get my heel all the way into my uniform shoe. “Good of you to join us, Dickie.” 

“Sorry, ma’am,” I sigh, waging a determined battle against my gorge as it threatens to rise with each word issued. I’d normally make a good-natured crack or two, but I can’t say I’m feeling up to the task at the moment. Nothing spoils a good quip like a hose of barf sprayed all over your Chief of Police. She lifts her eyebrows as she takes in my clearly hungover appearance, and gives me a look of facetious disapproval. She knows it was my birthday yesterday, and she’s got ample deductive reasoning skills (obviously — she _is_ the Chief now for a reason.) 

Well, kids, I’m had, and am doomed to catch this one in the butt all day. I bite back a groan. 

“You look like masticated shit,” Gannon observes quietly as I come to sit beside him. _“And_ you’re thirty seconds late. You sick?” 

I shake my head, resisting the urge to puke in my lap and go to sleep on the surface of the folding table. “Self-inflicted.” 

“Hmph. I kinda thought so, but you’re such a Boy Scout I figured I _had_ to be wrong,” he says wryly. 

I just lean my thundering head on my hand. Gannon, gone from humorous to concerned, nudges his plate of donuts toward me. 

“Here. I saved an extra Boston creme for you. It’ll take the edge off.” 

I grunt and push the plate back at him. “Ugh. I don’t even want to _look_ at it.” I rub my temples. “I need coffee.” 

He obligingly pushes the mug of coffee in front of him to me, sacrificing his own cup, and I gratefully accept it, feeling too lousy to be considerate. “Thanks, Gan.” I take a sip, and hold my breath to a count of two. “FYI, I am _so_ setting you up with my brother for this.” 

His eyes comically widen, but before he can reply, Amy loudly clears her throat at the front of the pen. 

“Now that we’re all here,” she begins, starting up the Powerpoint presentation projected on the screen behind her, “let’s get this little powwow started. And everyone be sure to be extra nice to Corporal Grayson today — he’s… not feeling so well.” A smatter of chuckles breaks out across the room, and I sink in my seat. “Anyway, the gentleman we’ll be gossiping about in a wholly professional way is the current focal point of persons of interest — the _shadowy figure_ here in the Haven who, apparently, pulls all the strings behind organized crime in our great city.” 

She clicks the mouse at her station, and Desmond’s photo crops up in all its unsightly glory on the screen. 

“A face only a mother could love,” she remarks dryly. “At least he’s recognizable — when he decides to show himself. Anyhow, it’s no secret that we’ve got a lot of cleaning house to do here at the BPD. Lots of external — and a few internal — allegations of corruption, embezzlement, extortion, involvement in black markets and racketeering… even stopping drug dealers and assaulting them to steal their drugs so they can turn around and sell them. All against a huge portion of our own brothers in blue here under our very roof — serious business, ladies and gents.” 

A murmuring of accord breaks out, then tapers. 

“Now. All tracks of corruption and criminal malfeasance lead back to this man here — alias _Blockbuster,_ the leader of an extremely powerful and _deeply_ entrenched mob group, the aptly named Blockbuster Gang. Now, we’ve had whispers of these guys for eons — but no solid _proof_ of their existence. It’s kind of like smelling booze on someone, but not catching sight of a bottle or getting a breathalyzer reading.” I shift uncomfortably when Amy smirks at me, then shifts the slides on the screen, this one now revealing a collage of crime scene photos. “But rest assured that for all they’ve been kind of like the elves of crime — i.e., leaving strings of highly unlawful activity throughout the city with zero traces of having actually been there as they go, kind of like Santa’s helpers — they’re as real as you and I are. They’ve just been so _established_ in Blüdhaven that they’re every bit as much a part of the landscape as the water — it’s bound up in the blood, bones, and _marrow_ of the city. This is corruption and control that goes all the way to the mayor’s office, guys and girls — and the BPD hasn’t been spared. And I’m not about to sit on this one and just let it roll on by in my station. We’re in the process of and making good progress on clearing out Redhorn’s contingent of crooked cops —” 

“That’s some amazing alliteration, Amy,” Gannon whispers to me, and I chuckle a bit. 

“A great gaffe and gloss-over, Gannon,” Amy barks pointedly, although her eyes crinkle a bit. “Anyway, Redhorn’s people are being siphoned out as we speak, and I don’t know about you all, but I want to keep up this trend of early spring cleaning and actually have a merry Christmas and a happy New Year. Long and short, it’s time to look into Blockbuster’s ties to the police department — and bring his people here to justice. Guessing you’re wondering what all of this means for you…” 

Another murmuring breaks out as the slides again change, this time to a list of names. For my part, I determine that what this means to _me_ is to put on the Nightwing duds and tip off both Gannon and Amy to the officers I myself suspect, or have confirmed, as Blockbuster’s goons, as well as some deeper info on the man himself. The right opportunity, the one that won’t put innocent officers like Amy and Gannon in as much undue danger, has _finally_ presented itself. (Have I mentioned I’m not a fan of strategic patience? I’m going out of my skull over here.) I have every intention of foregoing patrol a second night, but I’ll at least duck out later tonight for long enough to provide them the tips that will help Amy in her “early spring cleaning.” 

“You will be working closely with Internal Affairs to investigate these claims of corruption and ties to Blockbuster,” she says. “Our lone trustworthy guy in IA handpicked you guys — so consider yourself… something of an extremely special and elite unit.” 

“Right, because getting handpicked by IA is always a great way to make pals,” Gannon grumbles. 

I chuff a half-hearted laugh. “Well, I’m always partial to a nice swirly — reminds me of high school.” 

He elbows me. “Yeah, like your scorching hot ass ever got a swirly in high school. Just don’t drop your pencil, Dickie — our asses are at serious wedgie risk from here on.” 

I smile, and as Amy moves on in her presentation, I do my best to focus. My head throbs, my stomach rolls, and then, oh, whoop-dee-dee, my phone buzzes on its low, unobtrusive setting in my uniform pocket. I stifle an overwhelmed, exhausted sigh — word of the breakup must have gotten out. 

Not only am I decidedly _not_ excited about what my friends will have to say to me in the wake of the stupid shit I said to drive Barbara over the edge, I’m also afraid — _terribly_ afraid — that someone will have caught wind of what happened last night. Speaking of swirlies and wedgies — I’m not going to be safe from them _anywhere._

Sick with guilt and self-recrimination, I push that thought far behind the Deal-With-Later door in the back of my mind, and focus as hard as I possibly can on the remainder of Amy’s presentation, valiantly ignoring my symptoms, _and_ my phone — which goes off again, and again, and again. 

xxxxx 

When I shut the door to my apartment and _finally_ slap a lid on the Shift That Just Wouldn’t End, I lean my aching forehead against the cold surface of the grainy wood. My cell phone rests cumbrous in my jeans pocket, reminding me that I promised Cat I’d text her after work. A number of times, in fact. She texted me quite a bit more than her norm today, even though she knew I was at work — not something she habitually did before. 

The texts were perfectly innocent — sweet and fun, actually — but frequent and manifold in coming, and while I didn’t want her to think I was ignoring her (I wasn’t), I had _so much paperwork_ after yesterday, and even more for tomorrow (Friday, aka, Outstanding Warrants Day.) I just couldn’t keep up with them all and work at the same time, and eventually had to silence my phone so I could focus. 

I’m not a hundred percent on why the sudden, uncharacteristic onslaught of texts from Catalina. It wasn’t like she wouldn’t text me occasionally before, just not to this extent. Granted, it could be she’s reassuring me, and herself, that we’re still friends after our mistaken romp, could be the excitement, afterglow, and adrenaline after last night, the thrill of sharing a one-time naughty secret. 

Could be. 

…Probably not. 

I thump my painful forehead against the door and heave a low sigh, then make my heavy way into the kitchen for a glass of water. I stare listlessly at the gleaming steel of the sink as it gazes dispassionately back at me, illuminated under the pale, sickly night light under the cabinetry. 

If I were given a shovel, a grappling hook, and a pair of gloves, I couldn’t dig my way out of the hole I’ve managed to bury myself in. I’m in _way_ too deep now. I don’t even have air or light down here, I’ve sunk so low. 

I rest my elbows on the counter, and press my face into my hands. 

How could I have done this? How could I have _allowed_ this? How will I ever face Catalina, Barbara, hell, just _myself_ after what I’ve done? 

The weight of my phone in my pocket again makes itself ponderously known. I sigh. I’ll have to face the music sooner or later, like it or not. 

And my god — I _really_ don’t like this music. 

I sigh, grinding my fingers into my throbbing temples, a fist of guilt pulling my heart into my twisting gut. Catalina deserves better than this. Than me. Than what I’ve done, and now have to do as a result of my deplorable actions — i.e., lay some real, clear-cut boundaries down between us for the future that are properly relegated to mentor/student, something I’ve clearly failed abysmally in up to now, and now stand to truly hurt her over as a result. I ought to have laid the damn boundaries in a definitive manner from the get-go like a responsible, grown-ass man — but I was weak, and I didn’t. And now, here we are, standing in the wreckage caused by my unending string of cataclysmic mistakes. 

(I guess on one hand, though, at least enormous fuck-ups get you thinking more clearly and lead you to get your house in order. Silver lining?) 

(Sigh.) 

Thing is, I’m not a complete dope. Even if I’ve overlooked her brazen flirtations and poorly hidden contempt for Barbara, I’ve known Catalina’s feelings since day one. I’ve made a dedicated effort to step sensitively around them hitherto, teeter-tottering on the knife’s edge of encouraging her friendship while not leading her on, but what I did last night sent me toppling way the hell off that same knife’s edge to epically crash and burn (while probably taking her down with me.) 

And going by her behavior this morning and the spate of sweet-natured, flirty texts, she’s under _entirely_ the wrong impression. Even if I pray I’m reading her wrong, I _saw_ the look in her eyes as I left her car. So much unmerited love and trust — sparkling over the gleaming undertones of the belief that we’re Something now. 

It’s not at all to say I might not have reciprocated her feelings in other circumstances — ones in which I was A, not taken, B, not her mentor, and C, not rebounding off a six-year relationship with a close friend of fifteen years. Ones in which she herself wasn’t vulnerable and astray. In fact, in any other situation, I’d have accepted Cat’s advances with outright enthusiasm and considered myself the luckiest dude on earth. What guy wouldn’t? She’s a blessing to this world, whip-smart, a blast to be with, stunningly gorgeous, _and_ fiercely caring and kind — legit, the walking embodiment of every man’s perfect fantasy. 

As it stands, however, A, B, and C _all_ apply here, as do her own susceptibilities — meaning I am in no position even to consider it. I am _not_ the right man for her. Not right now. I repeat — she deserves better. 

I was drunk. I was lonely. I was floundering. I was hurt. I was jilted. I was lost. And I needed _so badly_ to be touched, validated, reassured, made to feel loved and worthwhile. A toxic, seething combination — making me _dangerous_ to her. And I _let_ that need take the wheel — and it led me to flagrantly violate every boundary between Catalina and me. To betray her trust beyond the line of forgiveness, _realize_ the danger I presented. (Don’t get me started on what this will do to Barbara — if I ever see her again after this, it will likely be either by accident or some cosmic miracle.) 

Let’s face it. Needs don’t care about righteousness, about morals. They just seek to be fulfilled, like an amoeba blindly, brainlessly questing for nourishment. It’s up to us to control how those needs are met. And I’d allowed my snowballing, festering need to go unmet for too long — and totally lost control, ultimately fulfilling it in precisely the wrong person, under the wrong circumstances, at the wrong time. 

But how do I explain this to Cat? How do I even _begin_ to say I’m sorry to everyone I’ve thrown under the bus with this? 

My stomach performs a nauseating flop. I really don’t want to lose Catalina’s or Barbara’s friendship or faith, but I know that I have, quite frankly, sacrificed the right to all of the above. 

And now… I just have to man up, own up, and _deal_ with the ramifications of my actions — even if it totally, totally sucks. 

I release a breath. Better just get it over with and wait for Mat to show up at my door to come kill me. Honestly, if/when he does, I’ll probably just hand him my nightstick and say “Go for it.” 

Just as I pull my phone from my pocket and power it on, it buzzes. Nerves spiral in my chest in a fluttering wash of heat. Here goes… 

I check my notifications, and freeze. 

It’s a text from Babs. 

_Hey, babe,_ it reads. _Can we talk? <3_

I drop the phone to the counter, fold my arms, and drop my head on them. For as relieved as I am to see that she wants to talk, and on a silly, juvenile, fanboyish level that she’s using an endearment, I feel sicker than ever. 

Well… I knew I was going to have to tell her about my enormous faux pas sooner or later. I guess that much like approaching Cat, it might as well be sooner — and get it the hell off my chest. At least this way I can die in peace when I’m marched up to the chopping block. Sitting on my heartbreak and assholery with Gannon all day was torment enough, needing to ventilate it, but finding myself unable to — all the while feeling unworthy of his friendship and his kind attempts to help with my hangover and morose mood. I just couldn’t bear the look of disapproval and disappointment that was sure to cross his face if I were to tell him about Barbara and Catalina. So I stayed mum, and allowed the pain and self-loathing to fester inside me like a noxious wound. 

(I guess on one hand Gannon enjoyed a sizable benefit of my penitent disposition, though, because I made good on my promised recompense for his giving me his coffee by calling Jason to set them up on a date. My brother is skeptical, but my partner is ecstatic. It was the highest point in what was a taxing day.) 

I text Barbara. 

_Yes we can,_ I send, gritting my teeth, hating myself. _Although… I’m not real sure you’re going to want to talk to me :-( I need to tell you something._

When the phone buzzes again, I stare, my eyes about popping out of my head. 

_If it’s about Catalina, I already know. It’s okay, Dick. I just want to talk._

My stomach shifts and slides, a swirling mess of shock, confusion, guilt, and wonderment. How… 

_Don’t freak out,_ I get via text a second later. _A little birdy told me, but we can get into that later. In the meantime… I just want to talk to you about last night. Are you free?_

I think with a guilty pang on Catalina — who I promised repeatedly I would text and make plans to see after work, and still haven’t done so. 

My hands shake. I clench my jaw. I thumb the screen of the phone. 

_I’m free,_ I send. _Give me an hour and a half to get up there?_

_I’ll be here <3,_ Barbara replies. 

I release a breath, gathering myself, and then send the next text. Two birds with one stone. 

_Hey, girl — no patrol tonight,_ I send to Cat. _Want to come by my place around ten, though? I’ll have takeout (not cereal.) :P Sorry for being a little MIA today, shift was busy. #paperwork >.< Now I just have some loose ends to tie up — that okay by you? _

_Ten and tying up are both fine, guapo :P,_ I receive, and I all but break out into a sweat. _And don’t worry, I figured you’d want to forego patrol, anyway. <3 You ought to take it easy tonight. I’ll see you later, huh? _

I gaze sadly at that message, full of regret and compunction, and oddly, a warm, protective fondness for my friend. 

_How could I have done this to her,_ I wonder miserably, clenching my teeth and sighing through my nose. _And how do I talk to her honestly now without losing her forever?_

I don’t want to lose Catalina — _I don’t_ — and I inwardly flay myself with the remonstration that if I’d just kept my goddamn wang in the hangar, I wouldn’t be facing this unthinkable possibility of losing my friend. And I’ve just seen what damage vague, dishonest communication about one’s emotions does to a relationship (of any kind) — I’m not about to make _that_ mistake again. 

Guilt sucks hard. Imposed guilt sucks harder. Deserved guilt sucks hardest. 

_You bet,_ I reply, and then repocket my phone, inhale, exhale, grab my keys, and head out my door. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi amor: My love  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Querido: Dear, darling  
> Buenos dias, guapo: Good morning, handsome  
> Pobrecito: Poor baby, poor thing  
> Esta bien, novio: It’s okay, love


	9. Claimed

**CHAPTER 9**

I’m sitting on my bed, surrounded by your scent in my sheets and energy in the air, staring with rising anticipation at the text you just sent. 

_Hey, girl — no patrol tonight,_ it reads. _Want to come by my place around ten, though? I’ll have takeout (not cereal.) :P Sorry for being a little MIA today, shift was busy. #paperwork >.< Now I just have some loose ends to tie up — that okay by you? _

Why, yes, in fact, I do want to come by your place later, and it is okay by me. I was starting to think you’d never ask, _cariño,_ and was even beginning to worry. My texts to you today outnumbered yours, which was unusual — but I’ll acknowledge that I _did_ text you more than normal while you were at work, and in spite of the reduced response, you clearly made an effort to faithfully keep in touch with me. And you’ve been nothing but sweet, sending me little notes like _That Vitamin Water, tho <3 Thank you _and another stating you were tired but that the energy drink I sent along with you helped. Still, when you responded less than your wont, the niggling teeth of doubt inevitably began to gnaw away at my gut, leading me to channel my mounting nervous energy come the afternoon into cleaning the house from top to bottom (even though I just did it yesterday), pacing in the shower for nearly forty minutes, and zoning out to television I barely noticed after. The last time I felt this way was after the first time John and I ever made love — which was impromptu in the back of his car while on a surveillance job (whoops.) I _hated_ the feeling, I remember — the pressing insecurity and incumbent anxiety, the dwelling on all of the what-ifs, the overanalyzing of every single word and action. 

I eventually wound up in bed, curling up in my sheets, smelling and missing you, wanting more than just your nice text messages, but not wanting to spook you off by turning into Glenn Close in _Fatal Attraction._ And last night might have been a little overwhelming for you after so many months of forced celibacy — so I ought to approach you with kid gloves, or I might send you screaming for the hills. 

The shot of Spirytus Rektyfikowany ended up throwing you over the edge, after all — maybe a bit belatedly, its effects perhaps temporarily stalled walking through the cold to my house, but it got the better of you after you exploded cum like a teenager, sending you off on a crying jag, and then into Sickville a little while after you initially passed out. Hosing you off and cleaning my floor after you went from horny and loving to sick and weepy wasn’t really part of my plan, but I was happy to take care of you and put you back to bed like a little _niño._

After you fell asleep again, I lay at your back for a while, just wrapping myself around the warmth of your fresh, naked body in my bed, inhaling the scent of your skin and relishing the softness of your hair. I breathed with you, timing my inhalations to the rise and fall of your back. It was too bad you were so drunk in the end, because I’d have loved to make love to you again. You are a good lover, _cariño —_ I _still_ feel your mouth, driving me to the most mindblowing orgasm I’ve ever experienced (sorry, John.) 

I was too wired to sleep, so I got up, washed your sweaty, Elbows-smelling clothes, and readied the hangover care package for you that would help get you through your work day. Vitamin Water, ibuprofen tablets, Saltine crackers, Keurig cups, an energy drink, ginger tea packets — the general cure-all you associate with your _abuelo._ I can’t wait to meet him. 

I sat down at the computer at a little before six, just putzing around to occupy my racing, excited mind. I was surprised to find Artemis online, and still glowing, I joyfully messaged her. It wasn’t the time to share our relationship with others just yet, I figured, but even at that ungodly hour, I was so psyched after last night that I’d veritably implode if I were left to my own devices. 

She was up early with the kids, it turned out, and we chatted a while, eventually making plans to have coffee in Happy Harbor (thanks to you, I have access to the Zeta Tubes.) Wally would watch the twins, since he didn’t need to be at work until eleven for class, and she’d “called off tired” to work. _Perfecto._

I hope you’ll forgive me that I ended up telling her about us, after all. I had my reasons, _cariño._ She was so wrongfully convinced that you were such an irreparable wreck after your breakup that I felt compelled to assure her that you were better off than she might have thought — that you were in good hands with me, cared for, soon to be very happy. 

Her response was about what I expected — the laughter and disbelief followed by the thunderstruck silence and uncertainty, the gentle but firm expressions of concern and caveats about “rebounding” and “timing.” I had hoped she’d be a little more excited for us — isn’t she always going on about wanting what’s best for you? — but I’m not too worried about it, _mi amor._ She’ll come around. She is our friend, after all, isn’t she? 

Still, her words of caution rankled when you went a bit AWOL in the afternoon — even if I knew you were probably just up to your butt in work loads and meetings and hangovers and patrols and feelings. 

But now, your text. Everything is all right. If I had to guess, your loose ends are to shower and take a nap. 

I pull out my hidden laptop, the one I stashed _well_ away in anticipation of you staying over last night, and figure I’ll check the video feed from your apartment before getting ready. I just want to see you, _mi amor._ I’m missing you. 

I boot up the laptop and bring everything up. I’m a little taken aback when I see you, standing at your kitchen counter, thumbing your screen, clearly invested in whatever lies behind it, and even more nonplussed when you grab your keys and head out the door like the devil is hot on your heels. I gaze at the empty space left behind as your door closes, and sit back in my desk chair. My so-called Spidey Senses get to tingling — and I’ve learned to trust them. 

Something is not right. 

“Well, where are _you_ going?” I murmur into the quiet of my bedroom. 

It’s not to say you’re not entitled to come and go from your own apartment as you darn well please. It’s not to say that I care if you want to run out to grab a box of cereal or something. It _is_ to say that it’s curiosity, more than anything — what was it on the phone that had you sprinting out the door, and why is my FBI-honed ESP kicking in? 

I stand up, and I’m already hiking on my boots and grabbing my coat before any feeling of pause comes over me. 

“Come on, curiosity killed the Cat…” I whisper to myself, faltering and shaking my head. Then I grunt and pull my coat on. “Well, I’m not an actual cat, so whatever.” 

Roiling now with that inexplicable sense of urgency, the feeling that something is very, very wrong, that you solemnly swear you are up to no good, I grab my keys off my desk, and determine to find and follow you — just to see where you’re going in such a hurry. My need to know is now behind the wheel, driving this train, and sending me into my car and out of my driveway. 

Maybe you’re going nowhere — just on a walk to clear your head. Maybe you’re going somewhere innocuous and normal — the store, whatever. 

Maybe you’re going somewhere serious — to meet somebody. 

You have the only Tomahawk in the Blüdhaven area, a very recognizable (and not street-legal) motorcycle, and you mentioned to me in your sporadic flurry of texts today that the bike is almost out of gas. If you’re going anywhere that requires vehicular travel, you’ll frequent your favored gas station on the corner, and I can get there before you’ve filled up, since it’s a good mid-point between my place and yours. Then I can fall back and tail subtly — so below the radar even a Batkid like you won’t be tipped off. (FBI, again, is _not_ Fabulous But Incompetent.) And if you’re not there, it means you’re hoofing it — so I’ll just check your usual pedestrian haunts, and lay my mind at ease when I’ve found you. 

I make my way to your habitual Marathon station, idling on an unlit corner. 

And look who it is. 

You’re there, fueling up your bike, leaning a bit against the motorcycle chassis, gazing off into the city, eyes flicking back and forth, as always alert to signs of trouble or need. 

“ _¿A dónde demonios vas?”_ I murmur out loud into the silence of the car, readying myself to follow you when you move to leave. 

You replace the pump, the gas cap, and your helmet. Then you’re immediately off down the road, and I hurry to catch up enough to keep sight of you without making you aware of me. 

You pull onto the highway — heading toward Gotham. And even though you’re not on duty and are on a motorcycle that hits top speeds of over four hundred miles per hour, you mostly obey the speed limit like the good boy you are — making it easy for me to tail you. _Buen chico._

Still — _why_ Gotham, you possibly naughty boy? 

Granted, your direction taking you toward the city might not mean anything. You might be going somewhere entirely different. Or it could very well have been your foster father, laying the paternal smackdown and insisting that you come up for some family time, that you were texting in your kitchen. I refuse to let my hands shake on the wheel. 

You are not going to _her._ You’re _not._

Just like Artemis said earlier. You’re sensitive. You wouldn’t fuck me one night and then run to your ex-fiancée the next. I know you better than that. 

You wind up in front of a small, humble brownstone (decidedly not Wayne Manor) a little ways from the riverfront, where you chain the motorcycle up to the pole of a street lamp across the street. I park at the corner — my lights have been off for a while now — and get out of my car once you’ve gotten to the door of the townhouse. I punch the address into my phone once you’re inside, and stare in a rising surge of horror, rage, and disbelief that the house you’ve come to is _Jim Fucking Gordon’s._

You didn’t. 

You wouldn’t. 

_You didn’t. You wouldn’t._

But you would — and you did. And there you are now, both of you, you and that _witch,_ making your way onto the front porch now, each of you with steaming mugs in your hands. She sits in her wheelchair, and you in the wicker patio chair, facing her. It’s only by a divinely gifted miracle that I duck out of your potential line of sight before I’m noticed. 

My stomach twists and falls. 

This can’t be. This is wrong. This is _all_ wrong, Dick. _It is all wrong._

I take a breath, and force myself to calm down. This might not be what I think it is. It could be something entirely different than what it appears, something innocent. You were engaged for six years, after all, and friends for fifteen. It might be something as simple as you left a pair of socks at her house that brought you here, and upon your arrival, you decided to bury the hatchet with a cup of coffee — because you _do_ still have to work together, after all. You are very close to Jim — he is like another father to you, you’ve told Wally in your IM conversations once or twice. Maybe you are making nice to stay on good terms with the man you consider a second dad — condonable, and understandable. 

I slink around the alleys that lie between these close-quartered houses like a stray cat, and come to rest in the windy, frostbitten cold behind the stinking tin garbage cans along the wall of the Gordon home. Out of sight, but within comfortable earshot of you both as you talk, and with ample places to hunker down and hide if need be. 

On some level, I realize full well that what I’m doing is _far_ from orthodox, that this probably isn’t particularly normal or well-advised behavior, but I can’t sit at home, wondering where you are and what you’re doing, blindly trusting that you’re being a good boy, played for a fool while you’re up to _this._

I tune in when I hear your voices, quieting the white noise of my own discordant thoughts (but alas not the clamoring discomfort of the cold, that I’m not properly equipped against.) 

You mention that it’s a nice night in spite of the cold — _¿qué diablos?_ — and that you’re glad you both decided to talk outside (so am I, _cariño,_ so am I.) She says all she can think about is what the cold is doing to her estranged mother’s plants. 

Then there’s silence — so protracted that I become curious enough to consider shifting to the edge of the porch where I can catch a glimpse of what’s going on. You couldn’t possibly just be sitting there in quiet. You are a talker, Dick — always one to fill the silence, diffuse the tension, bring attention to yourself, a showman and a mediator to the core. 

So what are you doing? 

As I make my way toward the corner, risking my precarious position, I halt, and stay where I am when I _finally_ hear some real sounds from the porch. 

“Dick,” Barbara says, her voice muffled. “I am _so, so_ sorry.” 

I can’t help but feel a little smug. Oh, _now_ she’s sorry — well, Barbara, that’s nice and all, but it’s too little, too late. It amuses me how many people don’t realize what they have, or _fight_ for what they have, until it’s taken from them. She never vied to keep you until you moved on with your life — and _that’s_ why you’ve come, isn’t it? To inform her that you’ve moved on before she gets it through the grapevine, always being considerate of others as you are. I’m mollified. And now she knows she’s too late, her desperate, last-ditch efforts to apologize are actually quite laughable. 

“Don’t,” I hear you murmur. “You don’t have _anything_ to be sorry for, babe. Anything.” There’s a pause, and a sigh. “I, on the other hand…” 

Oh, Dickie. You’re so kind you blow my mind — just too kind for your own good. _This_ is how you are taken advantage of so frequently. Barbara made the comment that you are a golden retriever, all sweetness and trust and wagging tail — and she’s absolutely right, isn’t she? I shake my head a bit. 

Babs snorts, again, the sound muffled. “Is this where we get started on our endless torrent of sorries and no-it’s-my-faults and it’s-not-you-it’s-mes?” 

You laugh, and there’s a bit of a pause. 

“Barbara… listen,” you say. 

“You quit that,” she says. “If it’s about Catalina, I don’t want to talk about her yet. I have some things I want to get off my chest first.” 

Ah, you _are_ here to tell her about us, and she has decided to hijack the conversation to win you back. Tough shit — all the points will go to me tonight. A million to Catalina, _ding!_

However, a lance of sharp annoyance goes through my gut when you speak again. 

“Would it help if I said I was sorry?” you murmur. “And… _meant_ it?” 

Oh, Dickie, _querido,_ why the hell should you be sorry to Barbara? You’re _sorry_ to her for making love to me? Sorry? _El Jesucristo, tu idiota,_ you don’t need to justify yourself to that evil witch in _anything_ you do, least of all moving on with your life. I’ve half a mind to jump onto the porch and _make_ you sorry if you insist on being so fucking weak, on eternally rolling over and licking her toes. 

However, I sit on the urge. She _is_ your abuser, your overseer, your dictator, after all. You’re bound not to think clearly in her overbearing presence. And it’s not as though I have a ready or believable excuse as to why I’m here, a hundred miles from home, conveniently happening to squat in the alley next to your ex-fiancée’s house. 

I wrap my arms around myself. _Me cago en este frío._ Ugh, _why_ didn’t I grab my scarf or mittens? My hands are going to fall off, even looped inside my coat sleeves. 

“I know you’re sorry, babe,” she says to you with a surprising gentleness in her tone. The lance in my belly goes hotter than lava. “Honestly, you don’t need to tell me you’re sorry, okay?” 

There’s a brief moment of quiet, and I huff in disbelief. I shake my head. She wouldn’t have forgiven you if you dared cut a fart in front of her in all the years you were hers, and now she’s lost you, she gets all forgiving and benevolent. Pathetic. I can’t help but feel a grim, derisive amusement over her pitiful, grasping efforts at making nice in the empty hope of keeping you. 

“I still am, though, Barb,” you say. “…Really sorry.” 

“I know,” she tells you. “You still don’t need to say it.” 

“How in the heck are you not… I don’t know, _mad_ about this?” you ask incredulously. 

“I never said I wasn’t mad,” she insists. “I’m livid, actually — horrified, furious, disgusted, incensed. But again, Dick — that’s for later. For now, I’d rather focus on other things.” 

“Well, that’s fair. _More_ than fair.” You sigh. “So… what are we focusing on for now?” 

“Well, I had a visitor last night,” she informs you. “An angel of mercy, if you will, bringing me a pretty illuminating message.” 

“Oh, yeah?” you say. “Was it the Archangel Gabriel?” 

She laughs at your effort at levity, and I roll my eyes. Why would you bother to joke with this stiff? Jokes just pass right over the top of her dull, ugly-ass head. I don’t think I’ve heard her crack one facetious remark other than to poke fun at you. At best, her humor is dry and flatly delivered — not particularly impressive. 

“Not quite,” she says. “It was Wally. And this is the message he brought with him…” There’s a rustling sound, and she clears her throat. “‘Okay, Dickie — on your mark, ready, set, go. Name three things you love about Barbara.’ 

“‘Three things? Okay… Well, I love her drive. I love her dedication. I love her resilience. I love her ability to keep a cool head and overcome absolutely anything that comes her way. I love her indomitable spirit. I love her intelligence, that amazing eidetic memory of hers, and her amazing brain. I love that I always learn something new from her. I love that she challenges me, keeps me in line, leads me by example. I love that she inspires me to be a better person. I love that she inspires others. I love that she reaches out to others. I love how selfless she is, how caring, how loving. I love that she doesn’t take any of my shit and always brings me to task for it, makes me a better man. I love how beautiful and fun she is, how well we get along and complement each other.’” 

_Hijo de mierda._ If I could vomit in my mouth, I would. Reading those words — your IM conversation with Wally, the same one I pulled off your computer’s hard drive the day I set up the cameras in your apartment, the same that sported those more damning words that had Barbara so angry twenty-four hours ago — sure made me feel like doing so. Hearing these stupid praises the bitch doesn’t deserve repeated back a second time damn near makes my gorge rise. I might have to blame your insistence on remaining blind to the crap she puts you through to a mountain of Mommy Issues. 

Well, if you are looking to replace your mom, and with someone who will punish you for allowing her to die, then I suppose Babs fits the bill — since she certainly comports herself like a cold, brutal, authoritarian mother. 

But what you _need,_ and desire, is a maternal presence that is tender and nurturing, Dick. _My_ presence. It is sad that you seek such a thing in your lovers. And after years spent under Barbara’s totalitarian rule, it is really no wonder you’ve run to me. 

Barbara sniffles. _Puta._

“‘Okay, Dick, I get the point,’” she continues, and chuckles a bit as she does. “‘I think that clinches your feelings. You just had a bad morning — don’t let it make you turn your life upside down and make it a bad year.’ 

“‘I won’t, promise. God, I feel like a moron. Now I think on it, Walls… I don’t think I could ever picture my life without her, you know?’” 

She sniffles again, and it sounds like you’ve joined her. 

“From the conversation that had me so incensed,” she says. “The unabridged version. Wally came over last night when I called him to confront him on it. He also kindly reminded me that I’ve busted off a few gems to him and Artemis about you from time to time that I wouldn’t want released to the press.” 

Yep, you’re crying, too — I can hear it when you chuckle and lightly say, “Like calling me a jerkwad?” 

“Hey, now,” she says. “I said that to your face.” 

Another chuckle. 

“Before you say anything about this,” she tells you wetly, “I _know_ I pushed you away. I did.” 

“No,” you say, your voice fierce, “no, you didn’t. It was all me, Barb.” 

_Madre de Dios_ — what is _wrong_ with you, Dick? I ball my hands into tighter fists where they’re jammed under my arms. I am forgiving, willing to overlook your flaws and weaknesses — but only to a point. I stop when you become _stupid._ And you are flat out _stupid_ now. 

“No,” Barbara states flatly. “You were trying to respect my space the best you could, and how you thought I wanted it respected, while trying to support and take care of me at the same time. That’s a pretty fine line you were treading — and I wasn’t helping.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“Well, because I didn’t really communicate with you on any of it.” There’s a pause. “Dick, I _knew_ you meant well — and it just felt completely wrong and ungrateful if I told you what I was feeling.” 

“What _were_ you feeling?” 

“A little smothered,” she admits. “I just… wanted to do everything myself. Figure out how to do everything myself, be _able_ to do everything myself. And I _needed_ to be able to do everything myself for a hundred reasons — most importantly, for my own sake. My damn self, as your partner puts it.” You both chortle a bit. “You know, they do say to back off and let people learn, and that’s what I needed to do. And you were a bit of an obnoxious mother hen — especially early on.” 

“…Oh.” You heave a sigh. “Babs… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be a mother hen, I just… wanted to take care of you.” 

“I know you did, babe. And it was sweet and everything, but it wasn’t going to help me in the long run. And Dad was just as bad, just in a different way.” She sighs. “I _need_ to be able to take care of myself — on a practical, logical, and both selfish and selfless level. You and my dad both work extremely dangerous jobs, you know — there’s _always_ the possibility one of you won’t come home at the end of the day except in a body bag. You especially, Dick. And if I let you both carry the load for me all the time, where would I be if I lost either of you — or both of you? Grieving is hard enough — grieving the loss of someone you _depend_ on is particularly shattering, and although I don’t even want to _consider_ losing either of you, I have to live each day knowing it’s a very distinct possibility.” 

I feel my lips as they tighten and my eyes as they close. I release a light sigh through my cold, running nostrils. My fists loosen and relax. I scrub at my nose a bit, and take in a breath. 

I never wanted to be able to relate to or understand an enemy like this. But the fact is, I struggle with the same fears, Dick. I live every single day feeling as though my grasp on those I hold dear is tenuous at best, always slipping at worst. You know better than anyone that loss is an ache that never, ever leaves, always lurking somewhere in the shadows of your life, waiting to spring at the first and most unexpected opportunity. Some days you’re okay, moving forward, functioning almost like normal, and others the pain overtakes you all over again and holds you under for weeks. And when you’ve experienced even one loss, let alone multiple like you and I have, you realize that you could lose anyone at any time, that no one is safe from the Reaper, that we all pay our dues to him in blood or grief. And it either makes you keep your loved ones close, jealously holding them to you like holy chalices, or it makes you push everyone away — creating a pain-free, zero-risk, intensely lonely panic room out of your life. 

That Barbara and I share this rankles, but it _gentles_ me to her, too, in spite of myself. I _know_ the fear of loss, the endless acknowledgement that tomorrow may be hell even as today is heaven, always _praying_ that tomorrow will be like today. I know the sense that every good feeling is tainted with the ugly shade of fear, the awareness that only one thing in this life is certain — that being death… and _loss._

I clench my teeth. I stuff the empathy. Until you’re out from under her crushing hold, I can’t afford to get soft on her. Won’t get soft on her. Don’t get soft on her. 

“And… that aside, babe,” Barbara goes on, “I _needed_ to be able to take care of myself for my own sake, too. _Especially_ for my own sake. If I sat back and let you and Dad do everything for me… it meant I was defeated. The bad guys _won._ I would have let them _beat_ me. And I couldn’t allow that, either — because they _haven’t_ beaten me. It’s not for _them_ to decide whether my life is over or what it is I can and can’t do. Especially not _him.”_

There’s a brief silence. 

“I understand,” you say, “and I totally agree with you. And I’m behind on you a hundred percent on that — I always was, and I always _will_ be. I didn’t mean to make you feel smothered, I just —” 

“You shhh. I’m doing the talking. I know how you felt, Dick. And why.” She sighs a little. “It’s one of those beautiful things that I love about you, actually, and was totally at war with myself over for resenting. I knew you just wanted to take care of me — support me, let me know you were there, and you were going to do everything in your power to make my new life even a little easier while I adjusted.” She sighs. “I just couldn’t let you, even on the barest scale. I didn’t feel like I _needed_ it to be a little easier, you know what I mean? And I could deal with a little fussing from Dad, but from you… babe, I wanted a _fiancé,_ not another father or nurse, is all. I didn’t like being treated like someone who needed to be doted on or fussed over or clucked at because of _such a tragedy having befallen me_ and _having so much taken from me.”_

“That’s not how I meant it,” you say quietly. 

“I know it’s not, Dick,” she says. “It’s just how it felt at the time. But… you were incredible — really, you were. I just couldn’t _see_ it that way then. And…” Again, she sighs. “I pushed you away. I did.” 

“No, you didn’t,” you murmur, your voice an assuring hum. “If anything, I pushed _you_ away, doing what I was doing, totally oblivious to your very obvious cues.” 

She huffs. “You need to stop taking blame where you don’t need to. I flounced off and stayed mum because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings over it, especially when you meant as well as you did. And then I enforced the distance and silence — and guess what? I ended up hurting you a lot worse.” Again, she huffs. “In a lot of ways… I feel like I drove you to Catalina.” 

_Buen chica._ Yes, she did. And you are much better off now, aren’t you? Even _she_ knows it. 

“Oh, God, Barb, don’t say that,” you say. “You didn’t drive me anywhere or to anyone — I just messed up, pure and simple.” You sigh from the barrel of your chest. “You didn’t do a single thing to put me where I am. It was all me.” 

I grit my teeth. I’m getting tired of sitting here, listening to this _mierda._ Are you ever going to stop talking? And Dick, why — _why_ are you even here _talking_ to Barbara like this, like she deserves your apologies and your explanations and your habit of taking responsibility for absolutely everything? Why are you even hearing her out, listening to her wank about how piss-poorly she treated you without _truly_ owning up to it or apologizing, instead rounding about to your own supposed (not) failures? Why do you always pick the punishing route, the one that _hurts_ you? Are you still flogging yourself like a shamed priest for failing to save your family? Is it now the boy you didn’t successfully resuscitate that is driving you to run to the whipping post? I repeat — is this what you think you _deserve?_

“Didn’t I, though?” asks Barbara. 

Yes. Yes, she did. I shift agitatedly in my icebox. Two more seconds of this shit, and I’m leaving. 

“No, Barbara, you didn’t,” you say forcefully. “I’m the only one responsible for _any_ of this. I wound up here in this mess because I hurt you — and then I just kept on messing up.” You sigh. “And Catalina’s… really the biggest casualty in this.” 

I freeze. 

What does _that_ mean? 

“How so, babe?” asks Barbara, her tone neutral. 

Goddammit, now I _can’t_ leave — I have to stay and find out what on earth it is you’re talking about. How am I a _casualty?_

“Well,” you say, “whatever happens between you and me in the next five minutes, whether you tell me to screw off and never show my face around these parts again or you tell me to hold onto your ring for you — I really shouldn’t be sleeping with _anyone_ right now. And since I’m guessing we’re not parting ways as boyfriend and girlfriend this evening —” 

What. The. Fuck. 

I sink onto my seat, dazed and shellshocked, atomized beneath the weight of the ponderous implications of these words. 

“Probably not,” Babs says with a gentle finality. “I think a little off-time will do us both a world of good, Dickie.” 

“See, there you have it,” you say, and with a nauseating twinge, I don’t miss the heaviness in your voice. “So… I _just_ broke up — and with a woman I’ve loved since I was nine years old. I shouldn’t even be _considering_ another relationship.” 

My arms involuntarily tighten around myself, strangulating into a cowboy’s lasso around my chest. 

“You think you need some time?” 

“Well, yeah, definitely. And I owe getting my head back on straight to any future partners, you know? Cat most of all.” 

I take a breath, release it, and force myself to calm down a bit. I scrub my obnoxiously running nose. At least you’re thinking about it, considering it, and being mindful of me — that much I can _easily_ work with. 

“And Babs…” you continue, “she’s been through so much already, she should be with someone who can commit to her with, like… every inch of his being. Not some heartbroken, rebounding, workaholic loser who’s trying to get his shit together, and mostly failing, like me.” 

Oh, _cariño._ You are more and better than anything _anyone_ could ever deserve. How can you not see that? I determine that I will help you realize your worth and beauty, accept that you _are_ deserving of every good thing the world and universe have to offer you. Of course your problem is your own sense of self-worth, your own tendency to take too much responsibility. You, too often, are your own worst enemy. 

“You are not a loser and you have your shit together, Dick,” Babs remonstrates you, and with a slight huff, I resist the urge to leap onto that porch and hurl her into the river. I repeat, where was _this_ attitude in all the time you were together? God, she’s _pitiful._ “You just need a little time to heal and take care of yourself for a change.” 

You sigh. “Well, Catalina also deserves better than someone who _needs some time,_ then.” There’s a pause. “I messed up, Barb. Big time. I should _never_ have let this happen.” Again, you pause. “And now… I’ve got to level with Cat.” 

“Which means?” 

My jaw clenches to the point of nearly snapping my teeth. Which means what, indeed? 

“I’ve got to tell her it was a _huge_ mistake,” you say unhappily. “That it just shouldn’t have happened —” My jaw drops, “or at least, not right now it shouldn’t have.” My jaw closes. “And… that we have to stop this before it can go any farther.” There’s a pause as my heart plummets. “It hurts, though, Babs. On every level, it just _hurts._ I don’t want to lose her faith or friendship, but… she doesn’t owe me either of those things at this point. Not after what I’ve done.” 

“Are you stopping it because you need time?” 

“Yeah,” you say. “No other reason, really — I mean, I can’t say I’d be singing the same tune in other circumstances, because honestly, she’s _amazing.”_

Oh. Well, _muchas gracias, mi amor._ So are you. My heart lifts back up a bit. 

“But… we’re not _in_ other circumstances,” you continue. “So…” Again, you sigh, and there’s a pause. “She’s the real victim here.” 

There’s silence even as I squat in my frozen prison, shivering in the chilly wind and grinding my teeth, torn between feeling heartened and irritated. What a roller coaster you have made me ride over the last thirty or so seconds — up to to the heights of hope and to the depths of despair and back! I knew that you would feel guilty about this — I anticipated as much, even considering the possibility that I would have to talk you back from the ledge. But this _practicality_ — this _rational_ behavior, this refusal to lead with your heart that is so unlike you — you sound so certain, so set on this path even now. 

Well. I will have my work in talking you around cut out for me, won’t I, _cariño?_

You are, of course, saddened about your breakup, which is only natural, _mi amante._ You were together for a long time, and you _should_ have proper time to grieve. And you don’t want to hurt me as you grieve, you sweet, thoughtful, beautiful boy. 

But grieving is a gradual, ongoing process, and there is no sense in stalling on something that will bring you boundless joy and _alleviate_ your grief. You will see that I am right, and even if you’re not ready to see as much tonight, you will soon. I know you will. And I will take care of you and love you until you are whole again, _querido._

It’s now I hear you chuckle a bit. 

“Babs,” you say, “you have that look on your face that means you’re going to _explode_ if you don’t get something off your chest. What’s up?” 

“Oh, I don’t know,” she says, also chuckling. “Just… Can I ask you something kind of serious and potentially a little awkward? That might or might not make you angry?” 

“Go for it,” you say. “We’re opting to be a little more open with each other from here on, aren’t we? No time like the present.” 

She laughs, and then abruptly sobers. 

“Was Cat drinking last night?” she queries. 

“No,” you answer. “At least, not that I can recall.” 

“Hmm. And… was she ordering your drinks?” 

A pause, and my heart springs against my ribs, even as my fists return to a clench. 

“Well… yeah,” you say. “Why?” 

There’s a spell of quiet. 

“Dick… I don’t know if Catalina is the real victim here,” Barbara says, her voice measured, almost conspiratorial. 

Oh, she’s chum for the river. I take back even the _barest_ speck of empathy that I may have felt for her. How _dare_ she even suggest such a thing to you? How dare she even _try_ to plant such a toxic seed in your brain? Of course I can understand how the incident might _appear_ to outside eyes, particularly those that are deluded, confused, and jealous, those who don’t _know_ the situation. You needed a break, you needed fun and peace, some time to let go. You needed _me, cariño._ I merely did what was necessary to see you accept and meet your needs — would precious _Barbara_ have cared enough to do the same? 

The answer is no. Of course she wouldn’t have. She cares only about herself. And I knew she was a bottom-feeder — but this is a new low, even for her. 

“Why would you say that?” you ask. 

“I just… some things aren’t really adding up for me,” she says. “Like… _really_ aren’t adding up.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“So… Catalina kisses you at midnight, as you told me inside during your frantic come-clean-with-all-the-things moment —” There is a chortle, “and then I get an email not long after — an email with one of your private conversations where you had a moment of not saying the nicest things about me. One that leads us to breaking up — almost as though by some grand, master plan. And, oh… look who’s waiting to swoop in and catch you as you fall.” 

A pause. My nails dig into my palms and my spine shivers as my whole body goes tense. 

“Barb, we already had plans,” you say. 

“Made before the email was sent,” Barbara says. “And I _doubt_ getting damn near blackout drunk — on a weeknight — was a part of those plans. Not for you, anyway.” 

“Well, Cat wasn’t exactly tilting my head back and pouring those shots down my throat,” you say, and ah, _cariño,_ I love to hear you jump to my defense. _Mi caballero blanco, como siempre._ “Once I got started, I _wanted_ to keep drinking — I mean, it _felt_ good to just let go and forget everything for a while.” 

“Which she knew going in would be the case,” Babs says wryly. “And then when you’re browning out drunk — she makes her move, stone cold sober… because she knew in that state you couldn’t properly say no to her. And I’m guessing she also knew you were a little, uh… _frustrated._ Easy pickins.” A beat. “I _just_ can’t help but think maybe she planned this from the get-go.” 

If I were to kill anyone after Redhorn, it would be this bitch. After all she’s done to you, she has the audacity to make _me_ out to be the villain? All I did was ensure you had fun and made steps toward a life that would make you satisfied and _happy_ after years of slavery and abuse and underappreciation — I hardly took advantage of you, _¡por amor de Cristo!_ And like you yourself just said — _you_ drank the alcohol, not I. You _wanted_ to get drunk, and I met both your want and your need. _De nada, mi amor._ At least I didn’t neglect you, openly scorn you, belittle and withhold affection from you until you were barely more than a pathetic, browbeaten lapdog — like _she,_ the evil witch, did. I want to help you spread your wings and _fly,_ Nightwing — not order you around and beat you down as though you are my robotic foot soldier, subservient and lacking sentience. 

“Babs, come on,” you say. “She didn’t drink because for all practical purposes she was the designated driver — she was basically just assuming the role of responsible adult while I drank my feelings.” 

“She still ought to have exhibited a little responsibility as the designated driver and recognized that when you’re falling down drunk is _not_ the time to start knocking boots. And I refuse to believe she’s _that_ clueless, Dick.” 

“Barb. Seriously. Not to use this word again, but don’t you think that whole _concept_ is a little far-fetched? Even if we suspend reality and pretend she _was_ capable of something like that?” 

“…Do _you_ think she’s capable?” 

“Cat? No way. _No_ way. Absolutely not. Snowball’s chance in Hell. I wouldn’t even believe forensic proof if you brought it to me.” 

I release a breath. Oh, you sweet boy. Babs sighs, and there’s a moment of quiet. 

“Dick…” she says eventually. “I’ve said this before, and I’m going to say it again. You’re too trusting.” 

Too trusting, _ay._ And you ought to trust _her,_ though, I suppose? 

“Barbara,” you protest. 

“Look. I’m not saying you need to go confront her on any of this or bring her to Amy to accuse her of taking advantage of you. Just… maybe think about it.” A pause. “Just think about it.” 

“You’re wrong, but since you asked — okay, fine, I’ll think about it.” A beat. “But you’re still wrong.” 

“Dick, I _hope_ I’m wrong,” she says emphatically. “If someone could do that — someone that close to you — it’s _scary._ It’s downright scary.” 

The only scary thing is that witch’s ugly, freckled face. 

“Well, you don’t need to worry,” you say gently. “Catalina would _never_ do anything like that. It’s all coincidence, Barb, that’s all. And whoever sent the email — sorry I didn’t believe you, by the way —” 

She laughs. “It’s okay, Dickie.” 

“Whoever it was probably just wanted to push us toward this — open and honest communication. And really, I’d say it worked.” 

“It did,” Babs says happily, and I all but scream at the universe for garnering _this_ totally backfiring result from my painstaking machinations. 

“I mean… like everyone else, Cat has her flaws, sure,” you say, “but something like this is _not_ one of them. There’s not a mean or malicious bone in her body, Babs.” 

There’s a spell of quiet as I grind my teeth (they’re going to be worn to the nubs by the end of the night) and just let the snot run over my upper lip. How are you both so content on that front porch? Unless you’re cozied up together under a blanket or something now. My stomach twists and threatens to toss my cookies onto the cracked asphalt. 

I just can’t believe the turn that _this_ has taken. 

Now, now I have a _real_ rival — a _real_ one, a _real_ threat, a _real_ enemy. One that I have to _truly_ outmaneuver and best at every turn. It’s time to roll up my sleeves and quit this pointless _espectáculo —_ it’s time to _work._

“I hope you’re right,” Barbara sighs. “Just… like I said. Think about it.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” you say. “Want to head back inside for a bit? It’s getting cold.” 

Someone finally noticed. 

Barbara agrees, and the two of you audibly make your way back inside, leaving me huddled in the frigid wind in the alley, the heat of my anger and resolve only just keeping the cold around me at bay. 

When I’m sure the coast is clear, I rattle my chilled, agitated way back to my car, every nerve on high alert, already devising stratagems and making plans. 

I know you, _querido._ I know you in my marrow. I know what makes you tick, how to tune your fine instrument to sing the notes I desire to hear. I know you better than you even know yourself — and I am everything you need, everything you want, the realization of every one of your dreams. I am your destiny. I am your soul’s counterpart. I am the heartsong that calls you to wherever you will go, the siren’s cry that beckons you from every edge of the cosmos. 

And you will see this — you will. I don’t care what I have to do to get through to you — I _will_ get through. You will see me as the answer to all of your questions, prayers, and wishes. _Because I am._

No one will come between us — not even that witch. The time has come to defeat her — and defeat her, I will. Decimate her. Humiliate her. 

And if she dares try anything after I’ve beaten her, I will _destroy_ her. 

Whether you even realize or acknowledge it, Dick, you are mine. _Eres mío, siempre._ And I am yours. No one but I can claim you now, and God help the fool that would try to claim me. 

And by God, if it’s the last thing I do — _I will claim you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Nino: Child (m, as in boy)  
> Abuelo: Grandfather  
> Perfecto: Perfect  
> Mi amor: My love  
> A donde demonios vas: Where the hell are you going  
> Buen chico: Good boy  
> Que diablos: What the hell, what the fuck (loose)  
> Querido: Dear, darling (lover specific)  
> El Jesucristo, tu idiota: Jesus Christ, you idiot  
> Me cago en este frio: Fuck me it's cold (loose; literally “I shit on this cold”)  
> Hijo de mierda: Oh, motherfucker (loose; literally “son of a shit”)  
> Puta: Bitch, whore  
> Madre de Dios: Mother of God  
> Buen chica: Good girl  
> Mierda: Shit  
> Muchas gracias, mi amor: Thank you, my love  
> Mi amante: My lover  
> Mi caballero blanco, como siempre: My white knight, as always  
> Por amor de Cristo: For Christ's sake, for the love of Christ  
> De nada, mi amor: You're welcome, my love  
> Espectaculo: Show, spectacle  
> Eres mio, siempre: You are mine, forever


	10. Interim (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all! <3
> 
> Just a quick interim chapter I'm going to drop now. The shifted trajectory of the story created the need for this little bridge between chapters, and since it's kind of a newish add-on, I figure I'll just go ahead and drop it now. :-)
> 
> Yes, constructing the email addresses was a fun task, completed with my dear, long-suffering friend, ha ha. XD
> 
> Enjoy, y'all. :-)
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo! <3   
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 10**

_**Interim**_

_Dec. 14, 5:13 pm_

_**Grayson, Richard**_ _< theflyingg@gmail.com> cc, bcc_

_**Todd, Jason**_ _< gimmeyourbookspunk@gmail.com>_

_**SUBJECT:**_ _RE: Yo_

_Sup man!_

_Well, I am not going to lie, Lil Wing, mah main wingman… I might or might not be sitting here all smug and shit after hearing about how your date with Gan went. Might or might not. Also might or might not plead the Fifth._

_But whether or not I admit nothing… please let me just have one moment of twirling my mustache and stroking my cat and screeching_

_MWA HA HA HA HAAAAAA I TOLD YOU SOOOOOOOOOOOO XD XD XD_

_(Insert gif of the Time Warner Cable guy from South Park. That’s right, I’m twisting my tits in satisfaction right now. Even have the flaps on my shirt for it.) :P_

_Bro, is this how you feel all the time?? That’s a serious question. That’s like your pet phrase for me, “I told you so,” so I’m just going to bask in this for one glorious moment. :D_

_Ahhhhh. :-) Feels good. I could get used to this. I told you so I told you so I told you so :P_

_Gannon’s awesome, though, isn’t he? I can tell you from experience that you’re never going to find a better dude — like I told you before you went out, he’s pretty much the cure for every illness on the planet ever. Whether or not this goes anywhere, you’ve at least scored a friend for life in him._

_PLEASE tell me you’re at the point you’re bringing him to the manor for Christmas… :D_

_ANYWAY…_

_I’ve been doing a lot better, thanks for asking and checking in. Speaking of good dudes, that’s you. :-) As for what I’ve been up to, just kind of the usual, man… patrol, night job, just trying to stay whelmed and keep my head above water and do right by both Barbara and Catalina to the best of my abysmal ability._

_And since you asked… *opens the floodgates* *you’ve been warned* Babs and I are definitely doing WAY better… like talking and seeing each other more than we did even when we were together?? XD And getting along better?? Seems weird… but a GOOD weird, and I guess that means for sure a break was in order so we could both kinda get our heads back on straight. Wherever it goes from here, I’m feelin that aster, bro. <3 _

_As for Catalina, it’s definitely off on a foot that’s better for both of us now… Way more appropriate relationship between mentor/student and we finally have some good, proper boundaries laid down. What suuuuucks though is that I know that even if she hides it, she’s so damn SAD about it… And I NEVER meant to hurt her, like I’d just as soon give my weapon to Mat and be like “Bust a cap in my ass, bruh” before letting that happen._

_Still. Guess what’s done is done… :-( Just gotta try picking up the pieces._

_I DID tell her if things were different, I’d have been thrilled to be with her (and I would, that wasn’t a lie, she’s awesome, I mean if Barb wasn’t in the picture it’d be no contest and all she’d have to do is say the word), but AT THIS POINT and AS IT STANDS NOW she deserves someone better than a dipshit work-addicted moron on the rebound like me, who can’t get his shit together or adult to save his own life. :P I also told her she SHOULD get with some god among men (dude, Kaldur, maybe?? Jeff?? Think she’d be interested?? Not to like, deflect or cop out or play yenta or Emma or whatever…) who will give her the sun and the moon and the universe, that it’s not her it’s me, and blah blah blah… And I meant it, like I REALLY MEANT IT, Jay, but I just don’t know if she bought it or not. :-(_

_I know I led her on (unintentionally, I swear)… and I drunk-slept with her… all of which was just a MASSIVE fuck-up that I shouldn’t have let happen. *sigh* (Don’t drink and drive, phone, or bone.) :P So at the moment I’m just kind of trying to atone for that and make it up to her in whatever shabby way I can. Seems to be going okay — still working perfectly well together, getting along great, and having a good time all the while. Soooooooo glad at least our friendship hasn’t suffered._

_Anyhoo, hope all’s traught and whelmed and astrous for you, Lil Wing <3 (Love imagining you cringe every time I call you that. >:D Whatever. You’re my kid brother, it’s darn well my right to give you a stupid nickname. And chase it all sappily with a heart emoticon.) :D _

_Better get moving, gotta have Cat the Olympic Hopeful pummel my ass on our training run in half an hour. *my butt hurts* *but I’ve gotten hella fast, woo!* Love ya, brother._

_~Dickiebird_


	11. Escalar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everyone!
> 
> Oh, snap... :D It starts.
> 
> Some triggery type things ahead, predominantly in the form of references to racism and uses of racial slurs... just a caveat. <3
> 
> Many thanks to my BFF and my beloved chibi_nightowl for looking this (and the previous chapters) over for me! <3 You guys are amazing!
> 
> Happy reading, y'all! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 11**

**  
**

How. 

How, _cariño._

How did we come to this? 

How have we fallen so far? 

This evening, Christmas Eve, I am alone — while you cozy up to that _witch_ in your apartment. You invited _her_ to your family Christmas at the manor, and you didn’t invite me. And now here you are, back in your apartment with her. 

Do you _like_ to watch me hurt? Do you even _know_ how much you are hurting me? Or have I faked it so well, having been so determined to win you back that you’ve mistaken my kindness for being happy for you and supportive of every stupid mistake you make? 

Possibly I shouldn’t be sitting here watching the feed from the cameras in your apartment, with every tiny pixel on the screen a piercing, razor sharp blade through my breast as you and Barbara recline on your couch. If it hurts so badly — _and it does_ — why would I continue to torture myself so? _Dios mío,_ it’s like cigarettes put out on every inch of my skin, all of my bones snapped, all of my hairs ripped away from the follicles. But I cannot look away. I _must_ know what will come next — must know which di to throw, which card to play. My chest leaps with my angry, rapidly accelerating breath. 

Has it become this desperate? 

My hands fist in the hem of my sweatshirt. I catch a gust of my own ungodly BO as I shift. I haven’t showered since two days ago. I haven’t eaten much or lifted a finger around the house, either. I’ve remained parked on my couch or in my bed, waiting with increasing anxiety to hear from you. 

It’s been twenty-eight hours since your last text. _Twenty-eight._ And that was to tell me no patrol — to just relax and enjoy the holiday and say hello to Mateo for you and you’ll catch me on Christmas Night (tomorrow… which might as well be an eternity from now.) You were sweet as could be, informing me you have a few odds and ends for me, but that if I got something for you, you’d boot me off the next building and trust me to save myself with my grappling hook. Ha, ha. 

I _did_ get you a gift, _cariño._ And I wish I could give it to you now. However, no dice, since you insist on Netflix and chilling with your disgusting _bruja_ of an ex instead of answering to your calling, your responsibilities. 

And here you were the one that said crime never takes a holiday. But you’ve cancelled patrol _three nights in a row for the holidays._ And _qué carajo_ am I supposed to do with myself? What do you _expect_ me to do? _El Jesucristo,_ Dick, my parents are dead. My _hermanito_ is dead. My fiancé is dead, and our child with him. My best friend is dead. And my _maldito hermano_ can’t be bothered with anything unrelated to his precious job as the venerated District Attorney — and you’d better believe he doesn’t want The Flores Family Failure embarrassing him at his office holiday party through prolonged exposure to his colleagues. 

I have no one but you tonight, _cariño._ No one. And you’ve abandoned me. For _her._

This is not like you to be so cruel — unless you are truly just that clueless, assuming the best in the world around you. 

I huff. You are, aren’t you? You probably think I’m having a ball with friends right now, that I’m enjoying Christmas Eve dinner with Mateo, that I’m all cozy and fat and happy, surrounded by loved ones. 

There’s only one problem. I disgust and disappoint Mateo for reasons I will _never_ comprehend, and he can’t be bothered with me, anyway. And I don’t have any friends since I left the Bureau — you would be astonished how few of my colleagues (and just people in general) believed my story. 

I suppose I could knock on lonely Mrs. Duly’s door, but that would involve hours of off-brand Nescafe _mierda_ and hardened coffee cake and brain-numbing not-conversation about horticulture and plant husbandry. She is a sweet woman, but exhausting to be around for longer than two minutes. 

So it is me, and your company in the only way I can get it — via the feed, since you are not responding to your texts right now for the most infuriating reason imaginable. 

So far, you and Barbara are only talking, sharing a blanket, your head at one end of the couch and hers at the other, but every moment that passes as you relax and talk is acid in my guts and a vice around my heart. 

How did this happen? 

Really, how? 

I heave a sigh. I suppose it began with the Dear John talk we had the same night I followed you to Gotham. Later, in your apartment, with Chinese take-out to act as a buffer. 

You were as kind as I expected you would be — kinder, even. You warmly gushed to me about what a wonderful, beautiful, brilliant person I was and how lucky you were that I would even take the slightest shine to you, but that I deserved more than a jilted, work-addicted loser like yourself. You just couldn’t promise to give me so much as the world, you told me, when the _universe_ was what I deserved. And you said I should never accept any less from anyone. 

You told me you were honored to be with such an incredible human being even once, that I was so much more than you deserved, and that you’d have loved to see where this might have gone if you could offer me what I had coming to me — which was everything and more. But as it stood, you couldn’t offer me much but a broken heart, and I should have better than that. You said the timing just wasn’t right for us. 

“Is there any chance for us, _cariño?”_ I asked, sad, but hopeful for the future by the way you talked. Normally, I’d have treated your words like they were a rejection strategically worded to avoid hurting me more than necessary, but I knew, having heard everything you said to Barbara, that you told me the truth, that your feelings were yours and real. “ _La verdad, por favor.”_

You gave me the sweetest, gentlest half-smile. “I don’t want to answer that — because I don’t know. But I’ll tell you what. Let’s just keep moving forward and see what happens — what do you say?” 

I agreed, significantly bolstered. There was a part of you, I knew, a _big_ part, that _wanted_ to accept me then and there, no qualms. I just needed to _speak_ to that part, and help it grow within you. So help it grow, I would. 

I tried, _querido._ I tried _so hard._

I’m not certain where I went wrong, but I went wrong _somewhere_ — and it was like a mudslide from that point, gaining traction and speed, wreaking more and more havoc as it charged on, with me powerless to stop it. 

Maybe it was the strategically timed remarks I made about Barbara before I could stop myself in the wake of the night in Gotham. Perhaps it was my own failure to pursue you more obviously, more aggressively while you and Babs incessantly texted and phoned, your connection to her growing as mine to you unstoppably waned. Possibly it was that my own efforts to subtly poison you against her fell on deaf ears and blind eyes. You didn’t even bat an eyelash when I made several strenuous efforts to indicate that she was getting cozy with a coworker of hers from the library, and you reacted even more unexpectedly when I told you that I heard through the grapevine that she criticized you behind your back, to the point of making fun of you with unthinkable meanness, even. 

I could have landed a right hook in your perfect teeth when you laughed out loud, and said, “Well, sure she does. Why wouldn’t she? I’ve just got a dopey personality that lends itself naturally to being made fun of.” Then, you lightly nudged my arm. “In seriousness, Cat, don’t worry about it. Whoever you heard that from was either wrong or misunderstood. Babs isn’t like that.” 

_Tu idiota._

For your part, you never spoke of Barbara to me, clearly considerate of my feelings, but you never hid your thoughts when probed — your new leaf of greater openness that I unwittingly turned over for you. Ugh, I could sign myself up for ritual sacrifice, _mi amor,_ truly. 

“So do you think you’ll get back together?” I asked one night on one of our training runs. I purposely hauled foot at my Olympic hopeful pace, punishing you, enjoying the look of you all flushed and breathless. You didn’t try to hide your discomfort. You are not an idiot meathead who can’t bear the emasculation of being chicked. Even so, I reveled in and took full advantage of the fact that this is the one area I am superior to you in, _hurting_ you in what harmless way I could for hurting me. 

And you _did_ hurt me, _mi amor_ — you texted less. You IMed less. You emailed less. You even _talked_ less without speaking more infrequently — your words were now empty and frivolous when before they were soul-baring and candid. Oh, you hugged me still, you were still kind and caring, you remained affable and fun — but you were not the inviting, open door you were when we first came to know one another. And I could _feel_ myself losing you, _sense_ it as you slid from my grasp like a heavy, slimy burden. 

“I don’t know,” you gasped, just barely controlling your breathing now. Ha. _Muy bien._ “If getting back together is the endgame, then I guess it looks good? But I don’t want to say for sure.” 

“Good,” I said, not meaning a breath of it, and vengefully sped up. I promptly left you behind. “I’m happy for you, _cariño.”_

“Wait for me!” you called, laughing now, rushing to catch up. You changed the subject immediately after like the sensitive soul you are — but the damage was done. 

Looks good, my ass. What does that _puta_ have that I don’t have double — tell me. _Te reto._

All the while, I did what I could to stay first and foremost in your sights, successfully at first — but with a mounting rate of failure as the days turned into weeks. And I tried _everything,_ Dick — I brought you little gifts (here and there, not wishing to be obvious), left you a note or two at work, listened to you as you unloaded after hard shifts on the job, worked my fingers to the bone in training and patrol to better work together and look after you come each night, rubbed your shoulders when you were sore. I even _cooked_ for you, and while I enjoy cooking, I haven’t made a meal for anyone since John. 

And although you were warm and sweet and grateful, always returning my favors tenfold and thanking me profusely, gushing over what a wonderful friend I was to you and how lucky you were to know me — _still_ you fell farther and farther away from me, and nearer and nearer to Barbara’s arms. It was as though she and I were engaged in an unseen tug-of-war, she with chalk, tape, and anchoring footholds, while I held the end of the line slick with grease and fought to keep my feet planted in wet, oozing mud. 

Maybe the final blow was my refusal to cooperate with Oracle when she hopped on the comms to assist us on a delicate operation, one we’d been planning for weeks, since before your birthday, even. We raided a human trafficking ring run by one of Blockbuster’s goons, and all went according to plan — except that suddenly, Oracle was helping out. She was _not_ part of the plan, and I was _not_ pleased to share the one Barbara-free space that I still had with you. I did not, _could_ not play well with her, the intruder — although I did try. 

And okay, so maybe I failed a bit. And maybe the mission went a _little_ south when I didn’t listen to the stupid _puta._ And maybe I _should_ have listened to her. I suppose her advice and direction were sound — but I didn’t care, and moved according to the original plan of attack. 

Either way, we were still successful — just a little bruised, maybe. 

And okay, maybe I left a dead body in my wake. 

That… _that_ was the turning point, wasn’t it? 

I was just so overwrought, Dick — so upset, so frantic, so hurt and jealous, so certain I was losing you even as I watched helplessly. The two of you worked over the comms like a well-oiled, faultless machine, reading each other’s minds even without M’gann there to link you, finishing each other’s sentences, communicating seamlessly and to flawless efficacy. I felt, in short order, like a goddamn third wheel on my own fucking mission. 

So when the bastard who trafficked the girls told me in plain speech, goading me, that “oh, he liked him a feisty spic,” I blew his head off before I could even stall my arm from moving. 

You were flattened. Shellshocked. Devastated. 

Then, you were _furious._

Actually, furious doesn’t even cover it. You were _incensed._ You don’t like to showcase it, and you keep it subdued, but you have a temper on you, _cariño._ And your rages are a thing of beauty, incandescent and sparkling, like a gorgeous force of nature one witnesses with a sense of awe — so long as the rages are not directed one’s way. 

And that night, your rage was aimed _right at me._ And it wasn’t awe-inspiring. It was _shattering._

You were not frightening, you were not threatening. And you were _far_ from unsympathetic when I burst into hurt, angry tears over the slur that sick, victimizing bastard used on me. You softened immediately then, hugging me, telling me you were sorry, that of course you were furious for me, too, and that you didn’t blame me at all for lashing out, for feeling driven to violence. In my encompassing fury and onus, I scoffed, mentioning I doubted you could ever know how I felt. Then you reminded me that you’re half-Romany and you’ve been overseas — of _course_ you knew. 

But you _were_ disappointed, betrayed, even, that I still carried firearms concealed from you, that I had lied about them by omission. That I had lost all control and taken a life in a moment of heated anger — even if the anger was justified, even if he was a man that the world wouldn’t miss. 

But most of all, you were _terrified_ for me, you said. I had seriously endangered myself, and you were uncertain of whether you could continue to cover for me. 

Standing there in contrite silence as you remonstrated, expressing your disappointment and fear, I was just _crushed._ Obliterated. I felt like a smashed can, a scrambled egg, a cubed car. And each emotional word from you mashed me down more and more, turning me into little more than a condensed speck subjected to the force of a black hole. I even felt a little bad about using deadly force on the despicable, subhuman piece of shit, where I might not have let it take any skin off my back otherwise — he was a sick, twisted fuck who sold human beings like chattel. Why mourn the bastard? Yet there I was, feeling as though while I hardly grieved his loss, I had done something undeniably wrong. 

We parted ways that night after you made me call the no-sides Angel of Death to deal with the body free of evidence. He services both sides — those who call themselves heroes, and those who call themselves villains. You had never had to hearken to his services before — and I could see the pain and regret in your face. The pain and regret that I put there. 

Wrongdoing aside, I could have killed that disgusting crime lord all over again for driving me to this point. I couldn’t stand to disappoint you, to hurt and frighten you like that. And I hated myself for making you feel that way. I hated myself for losing control, failing you, _losing_ you. I stood in a screaming hot shower until the water ran out, nearly scalding the whole of my body, punishing myself in what small way I could. Then I lay in bed, thinking about what minuscular recourse might be left to me that would keep you with me in the deafening radio silence that followed, but the only viable option that occurred to me seemed extreme, difficult to maintain — silly, even. Still, it might have been doable, I reasoned, I just had to _commit_ to it — 

Thinking ceaselessly about this possible fix, about you and the inconceivable prospect of facing life without you if I didn’t attempt that fix, each thought frantically sprinting through my mind like a panicked stampede, I didn’t sleep. Didn’t eat. Didn’t get up. Not until I heard from you the following afternoon. 

I perked up with interest when I heard your text tone jingle from my phone. I held my breath and closed my eyes. Then, I lifted the cell, and my eyes widened in disbelief. 

_Still up for a run, partner? You okay after last night?_

I sobbed, and hugged the phone to my cheek. 

I hadn’t lost you, after all. 

Or… so I thought, anyway — as the days passed, it became very clear that, in some truly enormous, evidential way, I _had_ lost you. If you were falling away in the weeks up until now, you _plummeted_ away from there. And once again, I was powerless to stop it. 

And now here we are on Christmas Eve — I alone, and you with _her._

I fight with the urges to cry and vomit all at once. Listening to and watching the feed is sending my heart and guts to the floor as she tells you her dad is there, and the two of you joke about how she’s so sweet for indulging his overprotectiveness. You help her from the couch to her chair, and you both laugh some more about how she’s willing now to let you take care of her once in a while. You push her chair to the door, hold it open, brace it. 

I hate this. I hate it. But I can’t stop watching, arrested in motion, darkly fascinated. 

“You coming over for Christmas Morning tomorrow?” Barbara asks, smiling up at you. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for anything,” you say cheerfully. 

My stomach tightens and I roll my eyes. 

“Ugh, Catalina, _why_ are you doing this to yourself?” I grumble miserably. “As Mrs. Doubtfire said, this is _beyond_ obsession…” 

You lean down, and my knotted stomach lurches as you hug her, and she goes all in on hugging you back. Not an unusual thing for you, granted — but I couldn’t have prepared myself for what comes next. 

It looks like you go to kiss her cheek, and she yours, but you wind up with your lips brushing one another’s, awkwardly, accidentally. This little oopsie evolves quickly into a kiss — a _real_ one. 

I stare, agog, unable to _stop_ staring as everything roars to a stop around me. I can’t possibly assimilate what I’m seeing, not in a month, not in a million years. 

Your mouth visibly opens; hers, too. I catch the slightest sight of your tongue, Barbara’s. 

It ends shortly — not a long kiss, but a _big_ one. 

She grins, and so do you, both of you obviously buzzing, jittering, full of nerves and energy. 

“Uh — good night!” she exclaims, pointing at you, and you laugh. 

“Yeah, good night,” you say, running a hand over your hair, also laughing. “See you tomorrow.” 

And she is out the door with a sheepish but overjoyed, “Yep!” You peer out into the hall and wave, lingering a moment. Then you close the door and lean your back against it — all smiles, all joy, all unhindered excitement and satisfaction. 

No. 

No. 

_No._

No, Dick — this is wrong. This is wrong — _this is all wrong —_

I stare at you in breathless horror, the image of you grainy and glowing through the feed, and feel nothing but gut-punched and sick as you make your elated way from the door. My stomach lifts, swirling wildly, pressing urgently at the back of my throat. I cover my mouth with my hand, and make my frantic way to the bathroom. 

There, I hover over the toilet, my stomach knotting and unknotting itself, lifting higher by the second. 

I hear the tinny sound of your voice — 

_See you tomorrow —_

I see the kiss — 

And up everything comes. 

I don’t bother flushing. I just fall onto my back across the cold tile of the bathroom floor, and it’s here, staring up at the ceiling, that I burst into real tears, violent tears, for the first time in longer than I can even remember. I don’t think I have cried like this even since John. 

I weep raggedly into my hands, my guts lassoing into a dense, shivering coil, my fingers digging into my face. I choke on my tears. My sobs tear my throat. My chest snags. My back arches. I turn to my side, balling up, tearing at my oily hair, screaming every bit as much as I am crying now. 

This can’t be. _This can’t be._ It just can’t, Dick, _it just can’t._ I’ve lost everything — _everything_ now. 

I draw in a wet, wavering breath, and slam my fists into the cabinet doors under the sink, swearing and shrieking, cursing everything from myself to God to the universe. Why is this happening — how could you _do_ to this to me, Dick? How? You know everything that’s happened to me, every horrible, awful thing that’s been dumped on me in my rotten, stupid, worthless life. What is wrong with you — _how could you?_

Just like that, I’m sick again, heaving into the toilet with an unparalleled violence, all of the upchurn of rage and betrayal burgeoning and exploding out of me in a neverending, toxic stream. 

I heave until I have nothing left, and I just sag onto the bathmat by the tub, still leaking tears, still sick, still smack in the incinerating center of the pits of hell. 

I lie for a long, long time. I don’t know how long I lie here, staring dully at the shower curtain, tears dripping over my lashes. I’m exhausted to the bone. Past the bone. Past the marrow, even — into the nuclei. 

After a while, when I’m too spent to even leak tears anymore and shivering with cold, I shakily rise, and make my way back to my bedroom. It’s there I lie down on my bed, the bed we made love in, the bed I made you mine for one bright, beautiful moment in, and curl into the sheets and blankets, missing and loving and hating you with every fiber of my being. 

And here, in the warmth and comfort of my safe place, my mind clears after a time, the cobwebs of shock and anguish slowly dangling and drifting away. And I remember with a profound rush the desperate, grasping idea that I’d lit upon as a solution to _everything_ the night of that ill-fated mission, when I’d wrapped myself up in this same blanket, grieving, mistakenly thinking I’d lost you. 

Now… now I am losing you — and I know that this idea is the only recourse left to me. It’s a lightbulb that goes off, the only lightbulb in this endless darkness that is my life without you, and I know I have to go through with it. 

I take a breath. It’s just… something of a white lie, Dick. One that will make you realize that you love _me,_ and not Barbara. 

And it will not be a lie for long — I promise, _cariño, lo prometo,_ cross my heart. It will be the truth eventually. And I will do everything in my power to make you so unimaginably happy that you will never wonder if this was the right thing for you, never look back on Barbara, never wonder what if — you will only look with joy into the future that your life with me holds, all of its boundless possibilities laid out to you for the taking. I will make everything more than worth your while, your entire life a study in perfect bliss. 

I promise, Dick. _I promise._

This is not the only thing to do — it is the _right_ thing to do. 

I reach for my phone, and send you a text. 

Then, I lie back against my pillow, wrapped in my blanket, my ancient stuffed lion from my childhood years held close to my chest, and wait. 

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Dios mio: My God  
> Bruja: Witch  
> Que carajo: What the fuck, what the hell  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Hermanito: Little brother  
> Maldito hermano: Damn brother  
> Mierda: Shit  
> La verdad, por favor: The truth, please  
> Querido: Darling, dear (to a lover, m)  
> Tu idiota: You idiot  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Muy bien: Very good, awesome  
> Puta: Bitch, whore  
> Te reto: I dare you  
> Lo prometo: I promise


	12. Luz

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all...
> 
> Hope all's well! <3
> 
> Had an interesting time with this one... so many mixed and conflicting emotions from our boy, here. XD And much tough love and open opinions from our beloved Walls. But my BFF/beta, when reading through, said she loved how Dick handled everything in this installment and got a huge kick out of Wally, so... praying that means I did something right, lol! <3 XD Speaking of that, all my thanks to her lovely, wonderful self for her beta work and helping me through this difficult bit! <3 :D
> 
> Happy reading! Spanish to English as always at the end. :D ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 12**

Slowly, I slide out from beneath Catalina, careful not to wake her. I rearrange the blankets over her slumbering form, ensuring she’s warm in the chill of the room. I run a hand over her hair, studying her in melancholy silence for a moment. Then, I find a sheet of stationery paper and a tolerably sharpened pencil in the topmost drawer of the desk in her room. Using the faint illumination from the nearby hanging string lights, I pen her a quick note, and tuck it under the hardcover Paula Hawkins novel on her nightstand. 

I’ll be back, but I don’t want her to panic if she wakes up to find me gone without explanation. Not after last night. 

I pull my jeans up over my boxers, nab my hoodie from where it lies atop the scoop chair under the window, and sneak downstairs, mindful not to make the floorboards of the old house creak too loudly. I send Wally a text to let him know I’m on my way. 

My best pal aggressively maintained that Catalina’s equalizing revelation from last night (which he and Artemis both squeezed out of me via text while Cat slept wrapped around me like a sloth in a tree) warranted an immediate face-to-face. I resisted at first because I didn’t want to take him from his family on Christmas Morning — arguably the biggest day in the entire kid-year, and the twins are old enough now to grasp the basic concept of Christmas. Wally insisted that if it would make me feel better, he’d pick up some donuts for the girls and maybe a last minute gift or two, thereby not making it an entirely extraneous trip, but we were meeting at the deli in the 24/7 Medicine Shoppe in Blüdhaven (the one establishment that remains open in flagrant defiance of the holiday), the end. I dug my heels in, telling him I couldn’t justify him coming out to talk up his needy bro on Christmas freaking morning, but then he served me a pretty sound curb stomp. 

_Dick,_ his final text read, and when he calls me by my name and not something like ‘dude,’ the guy means business, _this is friendtervention territory. Be there or I’m gonna show up at her house and I’ll hold it in her damn kitchen._

Well. Medicine Shoppe it was, then, I guessed, and caved. 

Making it there, I chain up the bike, and head inside with a profound sense of dread. I order some coffees and half the pastries in the shop, and then have a seat to wait. I steel myself the best I can, but I know I’m in for it. 

I probably shouldn’t even look at the coffee, I think, noting how badly my hands are shaking and how jacked my heart rate is, even before the influence of caffeine and after the cloying fog of sleeplessness. I’ll have a freaking heart attack if I actually touch it. 

“Hey, man.” 

I look up as Wally approaches the table at plain vanilla speed. 

Subtly, I take a breath. 

Oh, boy. Here it comes… 

“Hey,” I reply, somehow unable to make eye contact with my closest friend, embarrassed and ashamed all of a sudden. I all but sink into my own seat as he sits down and helps himself to a chocolate croissant. 

“So what are you gonna eat?” he cracks through a mouthful of pastry, indicating the heaping pile of baked goods between us. 

I shrug. “I’m not hungry, dude. Knock yourself out.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he says happily, and continues plowing through the pastries. “You sure you don’t want any?” 

I nod, and he pauses in his mastications, eyeing me intently. 

“So, um… Thanks for coming,” I mumble a little awkwardly, shifting, not knowing what to say, do, or even think. I’m guilty and uncomfortable under Wally’s gaze, which, when I dare meet it, is unexpectedly sympathetic. 

He shakes his head. “Dude, I pretty much forced you into coming. Not sure why you’re thanking me.” 

I shrug. “Well. This is taking you away from your family on Christmas Morning. It’s dragging you out in a snowstorm. It’s something you don’t have any obligation to do. So… yeah, I think some thanks are in order.” 

He looks at me with an uncustomary seriousness, his demeanor nothing but sober and concerned. 

“Dick, first off,” he says, “you _are_ family. Second off, big whoop about the snow. It’s not like I haven’t run from Boston to Seattle through a machinated blizzard. With a heart on my back. And a time limit. And like, zero snacks. And third off, I _do_ have an obligation, here — you’re my best pal, and the decision you make in the next few hours is going to change the entire trajectory of your life. I just want to make sure I at least do my part to help keep you on the _right_ trajectory.” 

I shake my head, not in the mood to play ball at the moment. “What’s the right trajectory?” 

He sets his coffee cup down and reaches for another croissant. 

“Well… I guess that’s what we’re here to talk about,” he says, lifting a shoulder. “What that might be.” 

“I don’t think the supposed _right trajectory_ has anything to do with me at this point, Wally,” I sigh. 

“Buddy, what are you talking about? It’s got _everything_ to do with you — this is the rest of your _life,”_ he says earnestly, and leans toward me. “Look, dude. It’s not to say you can’t make your own decisions. But I _do_ think it won’t hurt you to be presented with some brutally honest — and okay, potentially extremely biased — third party observations and… uh, _caveats_ based on whatever those decisions are.” 

“You’ve gotten so wise,” I say, half-smiling, leaning my head on one hand and continuing to fidget with the rim of the coffee cup with the other. 

“Pffftttt. Blame Artemis. She might or might not’ve coached me before I left.” 

I laugh, then abruptly sober. 

Wally eyes me knowingly over the top of his coffee mug. 

“So… First things first. Are you okay?” he asks. 

I consider that a moment, turning over all the facts in my mind, trying to come to some sort of definitive conclusion. 

The fact is, I have no idea what my basis of comparison for “okay” ought to be at this precise moment, feeling as though I’ve been blinded and deafened and hurled into freefall in outer space, spinning in astronaut’s cartwheels through an endless black abyss. 

Catalina’s words from last night, spoken to me across her kitchen table at 2:12 in the morning and ringing with a terrible finality, reverberate now through my ears, pulsing through the whole of my body, erasing me, rewriting me, deleting everything I know, scrawling over it. 

My cell had dinged on the nightstand last night sometime before two, rousing me out of a deep, dream-filled sleep. It wasn’t the emergency ring, the one that would rouse me from a freaking coma — just the standard text tone, barely teasing me out of the cloying dreamscape. I fumbled around, my vision clotted and arms tremulous, until I found my phone. 

Glancing at the screen, I squinted until the message came into focus. 

It was from Catalina, and at her words — _Can you come over? Please? Now? It’s an emergency_ — I shot upright, all at once awake and alert. 

I didn’t text back. I called. 

“ _Hola, guapo,”_ she said quietly by way of answering, her normally cheerful voice subdued, fraught with an underlying melancholy and distress. 

“ _Hola, chica,”_ I said. “What’s going on, you okay?” 

“Oh…” she said, her voice shaking, “I’m all right.” 

I wasn’t buying it. She busted the E word and she was audibly distraught. Like fun she was all right. I immediately got out of bed and reached for a shirt. 

“Cat, what’s wrong?” I asked. 

There was a pause as I pulled on the nearest pair of jeans and left my bedroom. 

“I just… need to see you,” she said. “Can you come over?” 

“Yeah, I’m on my way out the door now,” I said, tugging my shoes on and nabbing my coat and keys. “Give me ten minutes and I’ll be there, okay?” 

“Okay,” she murmured. “…Thank you.” 

“Any time, Cat,” I said. “Be right there.” 

I hung up, and in my concern, rushed out the door like the devil was after me. 

When I got to her house, she answered the door, and barely hummed a greeting as she stepped aside to let me in. 

“What’s going on?” I asked once the door shut. 

She was quiet, not meeting my eyes, her posture slumped. I had _never_ seen her like that — just so morose and sedate. The black sheet of her long hair was wet, the smooth skin of her face scrubbed, her dark eyes glassy and red-rimmed. She looked spare and shrunken in her oversized Sex Pistols shirt. 

When she didn’t immediately reply, vacillating in silence and resolutely training her gaze on the floor, I reached out to her. She _obviously_ needed a hug in the worst way — and my suspicion was confirmed when she readily fell into my hold, cinching her arms around my waist and burying her face in my chest. 

“Cat, what’s the matter?” I asked. 

“Please just hold me a minute, _cariño,”_ she whispered. 

I nodded, and laying one hand on her hair, drew her closer to me. 

“ _Lo siento,”_ she sighed after a time, backing away. She shook her head. “ _Estoy tan loca en este momento.”_

“ _Esta bien,”_ I said. “ _¿Que pasa, chica?”_

She gestured at the kitchen. “Want to talk in there? I made coffee.” 

“Sure.” I followed her into the kitchen, then gestured at the table. “Here, why don’t you sit? I’ll take care of the coffee.” 

She nodded and sat heavily in one of the chairs. 

“You’re sweet, _guapo,”_ she mumbled, her voice so low I could barely hear her. 

I shook my head, prepped the coffee, and brought it over to the table. She accepted hers as I sat down across from her. 

“Thanks for coming,” she said, her voice a little robotic. “I’m sorry to call you so late.” 

Again, I shook my head. “It’s all right. Like I’ve told you before, you can call me any day, any time — I’m always here, okay?” 

She nodded half-heartedly. 

“So… what’s up?” I probed after a moment. 

She gazed at the surface of the table and ran a finger up and down the handle of her coffee mug. 

I studied her nervous motions, my alarm increasing. I reached over, and took her hand. “Seriously, what’s going on? Are you okay?” 

She was quiet, and then heaved a sigh. 

“I don’t know,” she said. “Not really.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

She was silent for another series of endless moments, just gazing at the table, before she finally looked up at me. Her eyes went glassier. 

“Dick,” she said, uncustomarily calling me by my name, one tear spilling over her cheek. “You wouldn’t… I mean, if I needed you, you wouldn’t… _leave me_ or abandon me, would you?” 

“Cat, of course not,” I told her, _really_ concerned by then, and squeezed her hand. 

She laced her fingers in mine, and took a breath. “ _¿Me lo prometes?”_

“ _Lo prometo,”_ I assured her. “ _Cruza mi corazón y espero morir._ You’re my friend, Catalina. You ever need me, you say the word and I’m there.” I squeezed her hand. “So what’s happened?” 

She removed her fingers from mine, and closed both her hands around her coffee cup. She looked up at the ceiling a moment, and took a breath. 

“I’m going to… _dar a luz,”_ she sighed heavily, and even as my heart instantaneously went double gravity and plummeted straight to the floor, she buried her face in her hands. “…I’m pregnant.” 

And just like that — 

The entire world stopped. 

It completely, completely stopped. 

My ears started to ring and I _felt_ the blood as it drained out of my face. My stomach lurched. My heart went into overdrive. I felt the tingling in my back and underarms as I started sweating. My whole body went numb and my tongue filled my mouth. 

I had _no_ idea — none — what to do. 

I had even less of an idea what to say. 

But even in my own boneshaking shock, barely contained spontaneous panic, and utter bewilderment, I didn’t miss Catalina’s obvious fear and despair — clearly tenfold my own. I didn’t miss her pale, colorless face. The slump of her shoulders. The tremble in her core. 

I focused my breathing — in, out. In, out. In to a count of four, out to a count of eight. Calming myself. Gathering myself. Getting traught. Getting whelmed. 

I reached over, and again, took hold of her shaking hand. 

“Cat,” I said gently, trying to sound comforting even as my voice broke like a thirteen-year-old’s, “come here.” 

She slowly rose, and climbed onto my lap, wrapping her arms around my shoulders and burying her face in my neck. I just held her close, rested my cheek against her crown, and every so often, stroked her hair. 

All the while, I tried not to let her pick up on how starkly, utterly _terrified_ I was — encompassingly and all in a moment. 

_I’m going to…_ dar a luz. … _I’m pregnant._

_I’m pregnant —_

Sitting now across from Wally, _worlds_ away from any concept of okay or whelmed or traught or mayed or any of it, my stomach rioting against the sight of the donuts in front of us, I sigh. 

“Umm… Define okay?” I say in response to his earlier question. 

He chuckles. “Fair enough.” He leans back a little, and sips at his coffee. “So… What’re you going to do?” 

I lift my coffee, but don’t drink it. I don’t meet my friend’s gaze, either. I sit in silence for a long time. 

Finally, I speak. “…I’m going to do the right thing, Wally.” 

“What’s the right thing?” 

“I’m going to stay with her,” I say. 

There’s a brief, loaded silence. 

“With Cat,” he states. 

I nod, and put my coffee back down. 

“You’re staying with Cat,” he repeats. 

“Well… yeah, I mean, she wants to keep the baby, and… I’m all for that, so…” I shift, spectacularly uncomfortable, wondering if this is how the people I’ve interrogated during investigations as Nightwing or that I’ve assisted on as a cop felt while being questioned. “I’m staying.” 

“Do you love her?” Wally asks bluntly. 

For some reason, the question makes my throat itch to scream itself hoarse — I mean, what does it _matter?_ I put Catalina where she is and I need to own up — period, the end, to hell with my own feelings and whether or not _by golly, Walls, I love her!_

The fact is that I worried, on some level, that this might happen. 

Sure, I’d explained the fears away hitherto, dismissing them as groundless worries, realizing that I had no idea whether Catalina was on birth control or if she took herself off to the clinic for the morning-after pill. And more disconcertingly, I also realized that I had no idea whether Catalina could even _have_ children after everything that happened to her — and I was _never_ going to ask her. 

But I never confirmed any of it. And I didn’t cover my end of things (literally.) I didn’t use protection. I didn’t even opt for the old _coitus interruptus._ I risked everything about the rest of our entire lives in the breadth of an extremely few moments. 

And… lo and behold. The gift of life — _sweet, screaming, pooping life!_

My fault. My responsibility. My doing. 

So my feelings don’t matter at all. 

Bewildered that I could be kissing Barbara one second, and then having a baby with Catalina the next, doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it. 

But… here I am. Merry fuckin’ Christmas. 

“…I’ll get there,” I reply. 

“Dick,” Wally makes the quote motions, “‘I’ll get there’ isn’t good enough. This…” He gestures a bit. “This is going to be the rest of your _life,_ man. Are you _sure_ this is what you want?” 

Again, I nod. “Yes.” 

“Why?” he asks. “Educate the savage — because I’m not convinced, here.” 

“I just need to do the right thing, Walls, like I said,” I say, a little forcefully. “I screwed up utterly and now I’ve got to pay the piper — it’s as simple as that. Frankly, I should have known I’d catch this one straight up my ass.” I pause, and rub at an aching temple. “Listen, there’s an _obligation_ now — a _real_ one. This isn’t about guilt, or feeling like I need to make up for something, or even just feeling like _I should._ This is my… this is my _kid_.” I inhale. “I need to be there. At full capacity, I need to be there. I owe it to Catalina, and to… to our baby.” 

It feels _so strange,_ just completely foreign, to say that. 

“Okay, Dick,” Wally says heatedly, leaning toward me, his green eyes burning. “First of all, let me just clear one thing up for you. You do not owe _Catalina_ a damn thing. Not in this situation, being what it is. I mean, you couldn’t even properly consent to fucking her, for God’s sake. So you’re not _really_ under any obligation to her, here — just to that kid. Your _kid_ is who you owe, and who you have a responsibility for. You don’t owe _Catalina_ shit — so if this isn’t what you want, you _don’t_ need to feel like you have to stay.” 

And… here it is. 

I _knew_ this was coming. I knew it. And _here it is._ My fists clench and unclench. My chest and face sharply blush with an angry heat. My dander goes way the hell up and my Irish right along with it — and I go to bat for Catalina as my spirit rises to the occasion. 

“Wally,” I snap, “you say one more word like that about Catalina, and I swear I’ll smack the shit out of you. And you _know_ I’ll make it hurt. What the hell does everyone have against her all of a sudden — I mean, why is she such a problem to everybody out of left field like this? Why are we even _having_ this conversation — she’s a _victim!_ This is all my fault and everyone’s blaming _her_ for it and making her out to be the bad guy! It’s not like she asked for this, and damn it, I need to do the right thing, here!” 

“Dude, chill,” Wally says, lifting a hand, and with a breath expelled through my nostrils, I make a colossal effort to comply. It’s a rare moment that sees Wally telling _me_ to chill, meaning it’s a safe assumption that I need a proverbial Valium. “No one has anything against Catalina. Just some things aren’t really adding up for some of us and we’re concerned, that’s all. You’d be the first one expressing concerns if someone else was in your position and the roles were reversed.” 

I just shake my head at him, burning with fury. 

“Well.” Wally lifts another pastry. “I can see I touched a few nerves, there…” 

“Yes. You did. Catalina is my _friend,_ Walls — she did _not_ ploy me into sleeping with her by loading me up with booze, as you _and_ Barb seem to be so hellbent on implicating. And if Barb hadn’t been in the picture when she came along in the first place, Cat would’ve had a damn good shot — and we probably wouldn’t be sitting here talking about this right now. Not to mention — do you have _any idea_ what Catalina’s been through in her life? Because if you did, trust me, pal — you wouldn’t be talking like this.” 

“Well, not to sound like a total jerk or whatever — but I’m not real concerned about what _she’s_ been through at the moment. Right now, what I care about is what _you’ve_ been through, and what you’re going to go through. And that’s what I’m gonna go on, here.” 

I give him a Look. “What am I going to go through, Wally? Really?” 

He sighs, and shakes his head. “Dick, I don’t know. Just… enough questions have been raised that Barbara and Arty and I are concerned, that’s all.” He pauses. “So… speaking of Babs… have you talked to her about this yet?” 

I heave a sigh, and, opting to overlook the crappy things he’s just said and _pick_ my battles, I rest my forehead on my hand. 

“Yes,” I answer, sick with the memory of that terrible, painful talk, grinding the fingers of both hands into my forehead, not wanting to think about it. 

“…What did she have to say?” 

I’m silent, thinking on it in spite of myself. 

I wish that Barb and I had gotten to talk about it in person, in detail. But there was no time, no opportunity. I had to tell her the truth when I canceled all our plans so suddenly and at such a bizarre hour on her and Jim. She _deserved_ the truth — and immediately. And through something better than a text message, although FaceTime was the best I could do. 

I’d ducked into the bathroom at Cat’s after she’d drifted off, and talked in as hushed a voice as I could manage through my distress to Barbara via the feed. 

Her face, that heartbroken, crestfallen expression of sorrow and disappointment and hurt and understanding, will forever personify the guilt and regret that festers inside me even now, and that I know _always_ will. Her words will whisper inside my mind for the rest of my life, always waiting for me in dark, shadowy corners and desolate, lonely moments — the reminders of _what might have been._

“Dick… are you sure it’s yours?” Barb asked shortly after I dropped the bomb on her. Her face had visibly drained of all color, her eyes gone glassy and wet. 

I sighed, and laid my head in my hand. When I spoke, my voice came slow and reedy, like pushing thick, heavy sand through a sieve. 

“I’m sure,” I murmured. “But Babs… even if I doubted it, and I don’t… it wouldn’t matter. She came to me, you know?” 

She sighed, too. 

“Well… then I definitely know I can’t stop you, so I’m not going to try,” she said heavily, and with that, the tears fell down her cheeks. “Go do the right thing, babe.” She drew her fingers under her eyes. “Just… know I’m here for you, okay?” 

I lost my own tears over my lashes then, and caught them on the heel of my hand. Then, I just nodded wordlessly. 

I knew this was it. That every phrase we uttered was a goodbye. That we let each other go, word by word, with every expression we spoke. 

It hurt. It physically, perceptibly _hurt._

“Promise me one thing, though,” she murmured. 

“Anything,” I said. 

“Think about what I told you — and please… be careful,” she said. “Watch your back. Be careful with your heart. Protect yourself.” 

I gave her a weak, wan half-smile. “That’s four things.” 

She wiped her eyes, and returned the half-smile. “Pick one, then, I guess.” 

“I love you, Barb,” I whispered. “I’m sorry.” 

“I love you more, stud,” she said. “I’m always here, okay? In whatever way I can be. Always.” 

When we hung up, I all but _felt_ my heart as it quaked and ripped itself up along the faultlines of all its old scars. I pressed my face into my hand, and stifled my tears with my palm until I was wrung completely dry. It was only then I returned to bed with Catalina, and, unable to sleep, texted Wally (who thankfully was up to make Christmas preparations) to occupy my racing mind. 

Which inadvertently led me here to the café in the Medicine Shoppe, where I now sit across from my best pal. 

“Barbara was… _way_ more understanding and supportive than I deserve,” I sigh. 

“More than _I’ve_ been, you mean?” he says, more a statement than a question. 

“Walls, you have to understand,” I say. “I _can’t_ leave Cat to do this by herself. I can’t leave my baby to a broken home —” 

“Dick, I totally get that — but it’s not a broken home if you were separate to begin with,” Wally says. “And listen. This isn’t a matter of having anything against Catalina or making her out to be the bad guy — it’s a matter of knowing _you._ I mean, where’s your _heart_ going to be in all this?” He leans toward me. “Dude, you know Barbara will _fully_ support you being a father to your kid, _and_ she’ll treat it like her own. You _don’t_ have to be in a relationship to be there for Catalina and take care of your baby if it’s not what you want.” He pauses. “And I can tell just by looking at you that you are not — on _any_ level — okay with this.” 

I petulantly cross my arms. 

“Well, that’s a… pretty bold and presumptuous assessment, there, Wally,” I state. 

“Well, _are_ you okay with any of this?” 

“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh, uncrossing my arms. “But what part of _joint custody_ do you think I’d be okay with? And what part of separating that kid from its mom even for a day by court order do you think I’d be okay with?” I thump my chair under me in irritation. “Look. I’ll never regret making this decision, being there for them. But I know damn well I could _never_ live with myself if I backed out on Catalina and that baby. I’d regret that _every day_ for the rest of my life.” 

“Dickie, come on, you wouldn’t be leaving anyone, or even separating anyone,” Wally insists. “And in this case, you’re going to regret something else, aren’t you?” 

“Wally,” I say stubbornly, every recalcitrance button pushed, “I _love_ Catalina. I do — and I _know_ it’s enough I can work with it.” 

“For the rest of your life, though?” 

I nod, then gesture. “Dude, there are loads of guys — and girls — trapped in _legitimately_ toxic relationships with people who are certifiably insane but somehow keep slipping their straitjackets. I see it _every day_ on the job — like I investigate crimes that started with relationships like these. And trust me, Cat isn’t anywhere _close_ to these people — okay, she’s a little needy and… dare I say _clingy,_ but with everything she’s been through, you can’t blame her.” I rock my chair a few times. “Look. Walls — it’ll be _fine.”_ I pause, even as an inexplicable feeling of foreboding comes over me. “…It’s going to have to be.” 

“Oh, dude, don’t say that,” he says. “It’s _so_ defeatist.” 

“Well, it’s true,” I say. “And… I’ll adjust.” I release a sigh. “It’s what I do.” 

He frowns, and exhales through his nose. 

“Dick… Are you _sure?”_ he asks. 

I nod. “Yeah.” I shrug, and _try_ to brighten. “Come on, Walls. What’s the worst that can happen?” 

He reaches for the last pastry, and sits back. 

“I don’t know, Dickie, I can think of all sorts of worst-case scenarios — which I’m pretty shocked you haven’t lit on yet working as a cop in Blüdhaven,” he says, clearly resigned, “but if this is what you think is the right thing…” He lifts a shoulder. “All right, then. And… I guess we’re behind you.” 

“You mean that?” 

Again, he shrugs. “Either way, I doubt you’ll give us much choice in the matter.” 

I give him a half-smile. “Well, you’re absolutely right about that one — I _won’t_ give you much choice in the matter, and it’s a good thing you’re on board, because I _need_ you in this, bro. You _do_ know I have every intention of making you the godfather, right?” 

“Well, I’ll accept that honor with legit enthusiasm when the time comes, Dickie.” Wally’s smile fades, although his face remains placid. “Look. It’s your life, man. I’m just going to have to trust your judgment and that you’re making the right choice, here.” 

I ruminate on that moment before I speak again. 

“I think I am,” I say. 

He nods. “Well… then okay. And Dick… whatever you need, we’ve got your back. I mean it.” He stands after checking his phone. “Sorry to cut this short, dude, but I should probably get back.” 

I stand, too, and am surprised when Wally steps around the table and yanks me to him in a fierce, sudden, bone-crunching hug. I hover a second, a little taken aback and none too thrilled by anything he’s had to say — I’m a little hurt, even, especially for Cat’s sake — but after a moment, I hug him back, going all in on the contact with my best pal. Wally has been one of my safest places for most of my life — and even if he just tough loved the hell out of me, I _need_ that safety right now. 

“What was that for?” I ask jovially when he pulls back. 

He holds my gaze a moment, somber, serious. 

“You need it, man,” he tells me, “and I’m letting you know I’m here. No matter what. We’re _all_ here, Dick. Whatever you need, okay?” 

“Well… in that case, Walls,” I say, mollified, and even a little heartened, “I think everything’ll turn out okay. How can it turn out any other way with you guys in my corner?” 

He smiles. “What can I say, we _are_ kind of a big deal… just a couple superheroes, nothing to see here.” 

I laugh. “Wally. Thank you.” 

He squeezes my shoulder, and lowers his hand. 

“Look, man. I’m sorry if I didn’t tell you what you wanted to hear,” he says conciliatingly. “And FYI, I’m not going to take any of it back, but I _will_ say you at least have my support — tell you what, want to kind of bury the hatchet and bring Catalina by for New Year’s?” 

I smile. “Sure. Thanks, man.” 

“I’ll let Arty know. Thanks for the coffee and carboloads.” 

I nod. “No problem. See you New Year’s, if not before.” 

“Yeah, see ya.” 

I watch him leave with an unexplained sense of loss and sadness, and do my best to get myself together. 

I pick up some prenatal vitamins for Cat, some staple baby books and an “official checklist,” and a handful of other odds and ends, just things she might need or like. Leaving the Medicine Shoppe, I stop by my apartment and also pick up Catalina’s gifts that I’d left there the night before as I’d rushed out the door. 

I take the time on the bike in the snowy air to collect myself, reorder my thoughts, reassimilate my emotions. 

_It’s going to be fine,_ I tell myself. _It’s going to have to be. And it will. It_ will _be._

When I get to Catalina’s house, I chain up the bike in front of Mrs. Duly’s, and, moving quietly, enter through the front door. I hang up my coat, drop the gifts under the small Christmas tree I’d helped Cat set up a couple of weeks ago, and make my way back to her room. 

She’s not sleeping, it turns out, just lounging with her book, and she looks toward me as I come in with a soft knock, greeting me and giving me probably the sweetest, prettiest smile I’ve ever seen. She holds her arms out to me, welcoming me in under the blankets as I climb into bed with her like a blast from the Arctic Circle, still chilled from the December air. 

I can’t help but melt dead away all at once at the sight of that wide, guileless smile, her eyes so full of feeling, her arms so inviting and accepting. I wrap her up and hold her close to me, inhaling the heady, floral scent of her hair, feeling the heat of her body and of her unhidden emotions. 

Lying here as I hold her, I start to feel for the first time since last night that _maybe_ everything will be okay — that it will all turn out just fine. A sense of warmth steals over me, too — a soft, whispering tease of deepening fondness and fierce protectiveness for Catalina, who’s become just _unthinkably_ precious to me over the last hours, and for this child, a sense that comes to roost in this moment. 

This is going to be my future, I know, and when I see the everlasting trust and unfiltered love in Catalina’s eyes, I determine, here and now, that I’m going to earn both. I’m going to do right by this woman, by this baby, by this family — and that’s exactly what we’ll be. 

And if I’m going to accomplish any of these goals, I have to move forward — I can’t keep looking behind me, wondering what if, worrying about what I’ve left behind. However thrust into this I might have been, however I have a million and one regrets, however heartbroken and not at all ready for this I am, however Barbara will always whisper her way into my thoughts. I _have_ to move forward. 

So… forward I move. 

“How’re you feeling, Mom?” I murmur into her ear, nuzzling her hair a bit. 

“ _Estoy bien,”_ she whispers. “Happy you’re back, _Papá._ Did you get what you needed?” 

I nod, pull back, and smile, laying a hand on her cheek. Then, somewhat on impulse, I lean toward her, and for the first time since my birthday, close my lips on hers — _kiss_ her. 

To my surprise, and in spite of the leaden rocks of guilt and uncertainty that still sit like hardened magma in my gut, it feels good — just _so good._ Natural, fulfilling. Wonderful, even. Something I hadn’t even realized I’d wanted up to this moment — somehow like the sight of the first crocus in spring, or a first ray of sunshine after months of rain. I curl my fingers in the silken weight of her hair, and just _lose_ myself in this moment, integrating it, drinking it in, _accepting_ it. 

When it’s over, she bumps my nose with hers, and leans her forehead against mine, her hair falling like a curtain across our faces. She smiles, and I can’t help it — I do, too. God, she’s adorable — her smile alone is like a balm or a salve, one that I know will heal my heart faster, move me gently forward and to where I need to go to do this whole thing right. 

This could be definitely be worse — it could definitely be _a lot_ worse. 

“Hmmm… _mi novio,”_ she hums happily. “How did you get so perfect, _mi amor?”_

I chuff a bit, and brush her hair behind her ear. “ _Basta ya.”_

She giggles. “ _Nunca. Voy a hablar como esto por siempre.”_

“ _Bien por mí,”_ I say, and kiss her again. 

Then, we cuddle up to each other for a while, just relaxing in the gray half-light in her room until by and by, we decide we’re ready to get up. 

It’s a nice Christmas Morning. Not the one I’d planned, not the one I’d anticipated, not even the one I’d pictured. But while its origins are an upheaval of my entire world, it’s peaceful and fun, the atmosphere easy and companionable, somehow making the upturn of the hours preceding — including the barefaced, intense conversation with Wally — quickly seem like dim, hazy memories, unimportant and irrelevant now. We exchange gifts and Catalina makes probably the best egg sandwiches I’ve ever had (which I’ll never tell Alfred) while I make coffee, fiddling with the espresso machine Mateo left here and turning out some decent cappuccinos — yes! We end up curled around each other like two cats on the red sofa in the living room to watch _Home Alone,_ stuffed to the gills with the amazing food she made, relaxing with the hot coffee under the ridiculously fuzzy throw blanket. 

The street Christmas markets are open in the afternoon, something of a tradition in the Blüd, and since nothing else is going on and I’m off-duty from both jobs, we decide to tool on down to the waterfront to pick through them. They’re a little like off-brand versions of the holiday street markets in Europe — festive, jolly, with fairy lights and artful poinsettia arrangements and wreaths and ribbons. I get her a first edition copy of _Rebecca_ from an antiques hocker and a necklace with a handmade pendant from a local artist. We share an order of fried Oreos (holy hell, heaven in a paper-lined basket, and given she’s eating for two I only take one and let her have the rest, even if that act of generosity totally _sucks),_ and then go for a walk beside the water, just talking, the conversation as always coming comfortably and easily. 

She happily accepts the invitation to Wally and Artemis’ for New Year’s, mentioning that a chat with a fellow mom and seeing her new best girlfriend will be nice. I take her hand, twining my fingers through hers, opting not to tell her that she’s under (unfair) suspicion with my pals. No sense in sowing dissent — they’ll come around, I know, once they get to know Catalina like I do. 

But first… Mateo. 

Oh, boy. For the second time today, I gird up my loins as we head back to the house to start dinner preparations. Catalina is hell-bent on informing her brother that he’s going to be Tío Mateo over the Christmas dinner the two had planned last minute for the evening. I’d prefer to hold off a while, but Cat is clearly bursting at the seams, so I figure it’s her brother, and my close co-worker — no reason not to let him into the loop early. 

“Should I grab my vest?” I crack when Cat informs me that Mat’s on his way after her phone buzzes. “Or more importantly, my cup?” 

She snorts and continues rolling tamales. “As far as Mateo is concerned, his beloved Corporal Dickie can do no wrong. I wouldn’t worry about guarding your _huevos_ too much, _querido.”_ She watches me as I put together the _ponche,_ religiously following her mother’s recipe card. “You’ll be in a world of hurt if you don’t pull off that _ponche_ like our mother did, though.” 

“It’s not real different from Alfred’s wassail,” I assure her. “I got this, _cariño.”_

She grins at me. “You just called me ‘babe,’ didn’t you?” 

I give her a smile. “ _Culpable.”_

And as it turns out, Mat has no trouble coming around, unlike my harder won friends, when we drop the news on him over dessert. He of course was surprised to see me when he first arrived at the house, but even as I squirmed, Cat saved me the trouble of having to explain. 

“He’s my _novio,_ Mateo,” she informed him. “As of last night. Very new.” 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said with a laugh, and clapped my shoulder. “Welcome aboard, Dickie! _Feliz Navidad,_ brother, you want a drink?” 

Phew. Well, that was easy. One hurdle down… 

Now here we are, in the wake of the groundbreaking announcement that Catalina is going to _dar a luz,_ and Mat, astonishingly, is nothing but big, broad, sparkly smiles when the news sinks in. 

And honestly… it’s a little difficult to keep feeling sad and regretful and apprehensive when Mat immediately draws me into a rough bear hug, exclaiming his joy and excitement, congratulating us, welcoming me to the family. His enthusiasm is infectious, a temporary analgesic that quiets the white noise of my teeming, conflicting emotions. 

“Dickie!” he crows. “We’re _brothers_ now, _true_ brothers — you’re _familia_ now, _hermano!”_

I’m laughing even as I spoon some ice cream onto Mat’s plate beside the slice of pineapple upside-down cake. “Mat, I seriously thought I was going to have to jump out that window and make a break for it when you came after me with every intention of castrating me with this serving spoon.” 

“I would never, Dickie, not with you,” he says warmly. “This is _good_ news, and it’s high time something good came my sister’s way.” He pauses. “I just wish the rest of the family was here to celebrate with us.” 

I give him a somber smile. “Well… I’m right there with you on that one.” 

(God, I want my mom _so bad_ right now.) 

“Think of it this way, _muchachos,”_ Catalina interjects tactfully. “They’re _angeles —_ here even if we can’t see them.” 

Mat smiles. “Well, that’s a little sentimental, _hermanita —_ but I like it.” 

“Well, I’m always one for sentiment,” I concur, and wink at Cat. 

Mateo heads out later after some coffee and a few games of _Exploding Kittens_ and _Cards Against Humanity,_ and Catalina and I settle into the couch with some TV. Although she initiates some kissing, I hit the brakes once we’re into heavy makeout territory. We’re in this for the long haul now — no need to rush things, and I don’t want her to feel like she has to turn to _that_ for reassurance that I’m sticking around. 

We end up relaxing for the rest of the evening with the television running, playing old claymation holiday movies. Eventually, she wraps her body around mine, nestling into me under the favored throw blanket. In a matter of moments, her breathing deepens and evens, and she’s asleep. This little instance of her rapid descent into Neverland elicits an amused smile from me — Wally used to tease Artemis when she was pregnant for never making it past nine in the evening. 

_Well, Dickie,_ I think to myself, resting my face on the soft surface of her hair, _if this is any indicator of what you’re getting yourself into… I think it’s safe to say it’s going to be okay. It’ll all turn out just fine. Just give it time._

I rest my hand on her abdomen, molding my palm to the warmth there, still hard and concave. It’s partly curiosity, but it’s also silently connecting with Catalina, my new partner, and with the little life within her that rests under my touch. Unexpectedly, a spear of excitement and devotion goes through me, and, brimming and emotional, I kiss Cat’s forehead. 

And now I’m _finally_ somewhat at peace, I realize just how completely and totally drained I am. I don’t even have _fumes_ at this point. I close my eyes, and join Catalina in sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hola, guapo: Hi, handsome  
> Hola, chica: Hey, girl  
> Lo siento. Estoy tan loca en este momento: Sorry. I'm so crazy right now.  
> Esta bien. Que pasa, chica?: It's all good. What's up, girl?  
> Me lo prometes: Do you promise?  
> Lo prometo. Cruza mi corazon y espero morir: I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die.  
> Dar a luz: Give birth, have a baby (literally “give a light”)  
> Estoy bien: I'm okay  
> Papa: Dad  
> Mi novio: My boyfriend, my lover  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Basta ya: Stop it  
> Nunca. Voy a hablar como esto por siempre: Never. I'm going to talk like this forever.  
> Bien por mi: Fine by me  
> Huevos: Balls  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie, babe (applies also to f)  
> Culpable: Guilty  
> Feliz Navidad: Merry Christmas  
> Familia: Family  
> Hermano: Brother  
> Muchachos: Boys  
> Angeles: Angels  
> Hermanita: Little sis
> 
> *Also... yes, there was a quote from Juno in this one, ha ha!


	13. Gauntlet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everybody... :D
> 
> Happy Humpday! Hope all's well with everyone! <3 ^_^
> 
> Not much to bring up or mention here, except thanks to my BFF for the read-through. :-) And maybe an entirely irrelevant and unrelated recommendation to my fellow horror fans to go see A Quiet Place. Excelente! <3
> 
> Happy reading, hope y'all enjoy! <3 ^_^ Much love!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 13**

I trail my fingers up your back, tracing lines through the sweat on your skin, then press my nails into your flesh and rake upwards. Your muscles tighten, you exhale in an exhilarated huff. You quicken, your hips rolling, your hands lacing in my hair. I taste your tongue, draw it between my lips, suck at it. Passing my hands down the planes of your back, I grasp your buttocks, govern your rhythm. You moan, the sound the purest music. You ask, breathless, if you’re hurting me. I promise you that you aren’t. I tell you that you could never hurt me — and indeed you could never, now that you’re mine. 

You rock into me faster, your length jerking as you push deeper, portending the end. I pull you closer, press my cheek to yours. You buck and gasp, your hips pumping jerkily, your motions growing stiffer as you near your completion. 

You come, moaning into my ear, your outbreath a hot pulse on my skin. You shiver and throb inside me, going in deep, filling me with seed — _yes,_ Dick. Fill me. _Buen chico._ Good boy. 

You tense, shake, breathe. You twitch within me. You shift your hips, slowly relax, sinking down, regretfully withdrawing. You rest beside me, your side flush with mine, one arm lightly stretched across my chest. You smile at me, your eyes the most vibrant, beautiful shade of blue in the low lamplight. 

“Wow,” you sigh. 

I return your smile, and reach over to stroke the thick, soft luxury of your hair. 

_“Mi amor…_ answer a little question for me,” I murmur. _“Y la verdad, por favor._ Is it too early to tell you _te amo?”_

Your smile widens a little. 

“I don’t know, you’ve already called me _querido,”_ you say. “So… I’d say anything goes?” 

I grin, and kiss you. 

_“Te amo, mi querido,”_ I say, and you kiss me back. 

I wait for you to say the words, hold my breath, feel your lips on mine. 

Finally, you whisper into my ear. _“Te amo, mi princesa.”_

_Buen chico._ Good boy. 

You look over at the clock, and languidly turn to your back, stretching like a cat with a deep, satisfied groan. “Well, guess I’d better get in the shower — you still up for heading over to Wally and Artemis’ tonight?” 

I nod, and stretch, too. You smile, kiss my forehead, and rise, gloriously nude, to make your way out of the bedroom. 

The water starts, and I count to thirty. 

Then, I leave the bedroom, enter the bathroom, and join you under the flow of water. You smile, and immediately welcome me by drawing me to you and kissing me. Within seconds, you’re hard again — and that’s one thing that amazes me, _mi amor._ Even though you haven’t initiated actual _sex_ so far, you are always, _always_ ready to go. 

We make love again, you on your back in the tub, me riding you until once more you finish inside me. 

_Buen chico._ Good boy. 

You sigh as I sink down atop you after my own orgasm brought on by your fingers, the water warm and soothing as it pours over us. 

“…I think I could get used to this,” you chuckle, then kiss me. “Uh… is it _safe_ for you to be doing it so much, though?” 

I laugh. _“Claro, guapo._ You’re so sweet, already so worried.” 

You smile, kiss my lips and cheek, and we shower together before getting ready to head to our friends’ house. As always, you are caring, doting, concerned. You’ve done nothing but spoil me completely rotten since Christmas — treating me just like your _princesa,_ as you so often call me. You are perfect, _mi querido._

It’s so surreal, I think, this life I’m living — I never thought it possible that I’d be so deliriously _happy_ again, as dour and sappy as that sounds. But after John, life just seemed like the blank, endless expanse of an empty calendar that Plath described — white, glaring, bare of even the slightest writing. But then you came to me, and wrote meaning across that neverending space, coloring whole pictures of life and purpose over the vacantness of my existence. 

Your family were curious about how you and I came to be when you _finally_ brought me to Wayne Manor for proper introductions over an impromptu dinner last night, each of them asking their own sets of questions and tuning into what we had to say as though they had become privy to a magnificent scientific discovery. Your partner, who accompanied your brother Jason to this little informal event (which tickled you to no end), was especially intrigued by our sudden couples status. 

“You dog. And the sister of _El Diablo_ himself, no less… Better grow eyes in the back of your head, Dickie,” Gannon cracked, slugging your arm a bit. 

“Oh, the son of billionaire Bruce Wayne himself — better grow eyes in _all_ sides of your head, Gan,” you returned, laughing. 

“Bro, I’m fairly sure this little cupcake is in more danger from me than with Brucie over there,” Jason interjected with a waggish grin. 

I stifled a laugh. You weren’t joking that your brother loves to stir the pot. His very demeanor was fully — and deliberately — out of place in that palatial dining room. I loved it. 

“Who’s a cupcake?” Gannon asked, his jaw falling. 

“Hmph. _You_ are, cupcake,” Jason said. 

“Well, you would know…” Gannon murmured, attacking his ziti, and even as you and I giggled, Tim about dropped his fork. 

For my part, I was so overwhelmed and fascinated by the manor, its denizens both human and inanimate, and the elaborate grounds surrounding that I started to feel impatient with the questionnaires. I wanted you to take me exploring. I’ve seen opulence and wealth in my day through my work with the Bureau, _chulo —_ but the manor is truly an enchanting homestead. 

Eventually, though, and before you and I could race through the manor like a pair of overly excited children, your foster father (ah, the famous Bruce Wayne in the flesh) sidelined us and wheedled the news of the (soon-to-be) baby from you. Which was fine by me — however, you were more reticent with your adoptive dad than I expected you to be. When I asked why you hesitated to tell him, you explained that you’d prefer to wait until after we saw the doctor to let Bruce in on the news — maintaining that you wanted to be prepared for the inevitable interrogation that would follow. 

However, there was no need. Bruce figured it out and pulled it out of you. Turns out, he’s a good deal savvier than the media likes to portray him — and just as canny as you’ve described to me before. 

_“Oh, oh,”_ I said humorously when you confessed, stepping behind you and peering from around your shoulder at him. “The Cat’s out of the bag…” 

“Damn it, Bruce, you’re a freaking warlock, you know that?” you griped goodnaturedly with a laugh. 

“Well, Dick, it wasn’t what I’d call difficult to piece together,” Bruce said. “Given the information at hand.” 

This irritated me a little, but I let it slide. It wouldn’t serve me to run afoul of your adoptive father so early. 

We went over immediate plans, and this conversation carried one enormous benefit — it officially landed you in my house as my new roomie. I just mentioned offhand that it might not hurt to share a roof, and that my house carries no mortgage, a lot of space, affordable property taxes and utilities, a sizeable basement and shed out back for storage purposes… and that ended up with you agreeing to move in. You laughed a little nervously and waved your hands, however, when the topic of marriage came up, stating it was a bit soon and that we have plenty of time, but I wasn’t offended or concerned. You’ll get there, _querido._

The news was broken to the rest of the house, then, and the response was about what I expected — surprise, but a lot of joy, as well. It shifted the tone within the manor, but for the better, I thought. It certainly got the others to really and truly _notice_ me, if nothing else. 

And honestly, while your partner never failed to make me laugh, I had a great conversation with Jason about Sandra Cisneros, and Tim the adorable nerd-alert reminded me in some ways of _mi hermanito,_ Alfred was the one I took to the most immediately. He was formal and proper, sure, but so warm and kind, too. He gushed his congratulations, and asked me how I was feeling, querying after cravings and aversions for the purpose of future visits. He fixed me a sparkling lemonade tonic with raspberries that I cherished. Then he took me on a tour of the manor, with you joining us, holding my hand as we walked through the expansive structure. I never knew my grandparents, Dick. To find _un abuelo_ in Alfred — and one so caring — will be nothing shy of more dreams come true. 

Bruce was kind enough — a little awkward, a little aloof, but he seemed interested and compassionate. However, I couldn’t help but detect the undercurrents of mistrust, the little eddies that he didn’t strenuously conceal beneath his glacial surface. He’s an imposing figure — tall, broad-shouldered, clearly fit and aware of the power he holds in this world. So different from the Gotham rags’ and social media’s Brucie Wayne, the Billionaire Playboy. It’s no small wonder that you were tighter-lipped with him than with Mateo and Wally. And he is exceptionally protective of you and your adoptive brothers, naturally wary of strangers, particularly in the form of a brand new pregnant girlfriend whom he has never met and only just heard about in recent months. But he will come around, I know — he has a soft spot for children, which is no secret to anyone the world over, and this will be his grandchild, after all. And if he doesn’t come around, well… I have a few plans that I can put in motion to respond to a lack of support from your foster father. 

In the meantime — off we go now to our friends’ house in Palo Alto. I swear I have socialized more in the last week than I have in the last year, _cariño._ It’s felt so good — and in your own words, I could get used to this. 

We use the Zeta tubes, and you mention that the tech is perfectly safe in pregnancy, since its method doesn’t actually scramble one’s molecules — more the time/space continuum around a person. 

“Rocket and Artemis Zeta’ed all the time when they were pregnant and they were completely fine,” you explain before we enter the mouth of the beam. “Trust me, if I had even a trace of doubt, we wouldn’t be doing this. Don’t worry.” 

“Aw, as always, you’re sweet, _hermoso,”_ I tell you, and drop a kiss on your lips before we proceed. 

Wally and Artemis greet us at the front door of their house when we arrive, and before you can get your own “hello” out, you’re instantly accosted by your godchildren. I laugh at the unintelligible three-year-old babble as they bounce all over you, clearly overjoyed to see you. You boost one of them onto your hip, and the other stands at your leg, looking curiously up at me with a little shy smile. I melt into a puddle as I wave at the one that clings to your jeans and you introduce them. I have, of course, seen photos of the girls, but in person, _vaya,_ they are _preciosos —_ the cutest little things I’ve ever seen. 

The melting comes with a pang, however, as I think on my own child, who would have been only a little older than the twins now. I never even got to learn my baby’s gender, I think, gazing with a sudden melancholy on the girls. I take a breath and do my best to collect myself. 

_Soon, Catalina,_ I think. _It will all be yours soon._

And my god, what an honor it will be to bear your children, _mi amor._ My heart flutters with overpowering joy just at the thought of it. 

I smile when Artemis kindly offers her congratulations to us, hugging us both. She asks me how I’m feeling, guiding me to the kitchen to get me something to drink. I tell her that although I feel a bit rough, I’m okay — which is how I felt in my first pregnancy. I would feel perfectly all right for the most part, only to be suddenly waylaid with violent bouts of nausea that just as quickly vanished. Mostly, I was just inexplicably tired. These symptoms are easy enough to mimic until I get that little (completely holy) plus sign _en serio._ Oh, _hermoso,_ I can’t wait for this to be the truth, for it not to be merely a promise. It certainly _feels_ real enough, and for the both of us. I was so furious when the damn “painters and decorators” arrived a few weeks ago — you know I had even gone to church and lit a candle for the first time in _years,_ praying for a baby after you and I first made love? I slammed my fist into the wall and cursed God from this universe to the next when the accustomed cramps and fatigue and desire to commit mass murder and ingest nauseating amounts of Big Belly fries fell upon me, right on schedule. 

Still. It won’t be long. Not at the rate we’re going, _ay!_

“You know, I hope it’s twins,” I say wistfully, watching the girls as you and Wally play with them from where I stand at the island in the kitchen. 

“Uh, be careful what you wish for, Cat,” Arty says with a wry laugh, filling a glass with ice. “I swear even my _teeth_ are tired by the end of the day with those two hurricanes.” She pauses. “Actually… three. I should probably be counting Wally in that equation.” 

“Yeah, technically she has three kids,” you chime in from where you lie on the carpeted floor in the adjoining living room. You cackle when Wally idly lobs a toy at you in response. 

I rest my chin on my hand, leaning against the countertop, envisioning two little perfect carbon copies of you. I smile. “Oh, it’d be completely worth it.” 

Artemis laughs as she hands me a ginger ale. 

“Well, it _would_ be two times Dickie’s DNA — i.e., double the cuteness,” she agrees, “so… okay, yeah, worth it.” We both chuckle. “Honestly, though — the pregnancy was the _really_ hard part. Ugh, I couldn’t even _breathe_ and my stomach was _so_ itchy and _then_ I got gestational diabetes on top of it all. Apparently, I’m supposed to watch my carb intake from here on, but what the hell ever.” She upends a bag of Doritos into a bowl and promptly attacks them. 

We chat pregnancy things for a bit. I pay only half a mind to the conversation, entranced as I watch you with Iris and Isabella, deftly juggling playing with them and talking to Wally. You will be an amazing father, _cariño,_ truly. And I can’t wait. We will be the happiest family on this planet and the next — I promise. Even happier than the family we visit this evening. 

After a while, I spend some time with you and the kids in the den while Wally and Artemis cook in the adjoining kitchen. I periodically think on and silently talk to my own child, wherever she might be, as I often do — just sending love her way (I have always thought of her as a girl — Esperanza would have been her name.) But most of all, I focus on testing, honing, enjoying this dynamic between us — of caring for children together, connecting through them, kindling love for one another in them. 

It’s beautiful, _querido._ I feel nothing but peaceful and content, loving the feeling of you watching me with unhidden fondness as I play with Iris, and you with Isa (who, Arty tells me, has been nothing shy of your pet from the day she was born — she was the first you held, and although you never play favorites, it’s not a secret that you, at least, are hers.) I wonder what our children will be like, and a smile teases my lips. Doubtless beautiful, brilliant, hard-working, intrinsically moral, sweet-natured — just like you. One of a kind. All of you _mis ángeles._

We have dinner, and as always, you are helpful to your friends, assisting with the children and the dishes. I do the same until Artemis shoos me into the living room. 

“Sit your butt down,” Wally says, the final clinch that successfully plants my rear on the loveseat. “Artemis overdid it and wound up with bleeds and diabetes and all sorts of issues. Dick will throw me out in traffic if I come in even an inch of letting that happen.” 

“You might want to get used to being doted on, anyway,” Artemis remarks humorously, watching as you set a glass of water down by me and hand me a pillow and customarily fuss to be sure I’m comfortable. (I can see how Barbara might have grown annoyed — but unlike her, I _like_ being doted on. You’re in much better company now, _querido.)_ “You’ll be screaming for air before we ring in the New Year with this one.” 

“Hardy har har,” you crack, although you smile at her before you kiss my forehead and return to the kitchen to help clean up. I relax, keeping an eye on the girls as they run around the living room. 

It settles into a nice evening prior to the planned New Year’s festivities, indolent and quiet. The girls, once they are changed and bedecked adorably in matching footed pajamas, fall asleep to _Spirited Away,_ Isa in her favored position against the treasured chest of her beloved godfather, Iris in her father’s arms. 

It’s around nine when Wally announces that it’s bedtime for the twins. Artemis moves to take Isa, but you gently shake your head as you rise, careful not to rouse your charge. 

“I’ll take her up, Arty,” you offer. 

“You sure?” Artemis asks. 

“Yeah, I don’t mind,” you say kindly. 

“Thanks, Dickie,” she says, and you lean down so that Artemis can drop a kiss on her daughter’s soft cloud of downy hair. 

You and Wally head upstairs with the twins, leaving Artemis and me alone in the den. I lean back, and wait for you to return. It’s sad — pitiful, even — but I do miss you just when you leave the room. _Vaya._

“Catalina,” Artemis breaks the unspeaking quiet after a moment. 

I look over at her, and pause when I see her expression. 

It’s not quite inscrutable, but it’s close — difficult to read, clouded, loaded. Her eyes are dark, boring into mine, her jaw set. Her full, pretty lips are tight together, drawn into a taut line beneath her nose. 

“What?” I say, setting my own jaw, by now a little suspicious of what she’s going to say. My background has made me remarkably good at reading people — and I don’t think that what she’s going to say is anything favorable. 

“…He’s a good person,” she says, and her tone is anything but warm and fond. She sounds admonitory, as though she is delivering a _warning._

I lean back, and cross my arms. This certainly took a turn, I think — even catching _me_ by surprise. 

Well. Whatever she wants to dish, I’ll gladly return tenfold. 

“Yes, he is,” I agree neutrally. 

“Do you realize that, Cat?” she queries. _“Really_ realize that?” 

“Yes, I do,” I say. 

There’s a pause as she holds my gaze, unwavering. 

“…I hope so,” she says, still wearing that same unreadable expression. 

“I do — doubtless, better than you do,” I say languidly, “or at least, better than you give me credit for.” I tilt my head. “Otherwise… why are we going to this place, _chica,_ really?” 

She leans back, her expression now one of concern. 

“Dick’s just… He’s really been through a lot, Catalina,” she says. “And I mean a _lot._ He’s taken a lot of hits. Especially recently.” 

I tighten my arms across my chest. 

“I’m not denying that he has,” I say levelly. “And frankly, Artemis — so have I.” 

She eyes me, her jaw still set. 

“…Just be good to him,” she says after a moment. “Don’t lie to him. Don’t cheat him. Don’t screw him over.” 

“You think I won’t be good to him?” I query, unable to withhold a daunting tone from entering my voice. I mean, really — two-faced, much? Play nice while you’re in the room, and then get in my face the second you’re gone? And here I thought Artemis was my friend — I have neither time nor tolerance for this shit. “You think I’ll do any of the above? And let me ask you something — did you, by any chance, happen to give _Dick_ this same speech?” 

“No,” she states plainly. “I’m not concerned about him being good to you — I mean, being anything else isn’t really in the guy’s vocabulary, Cat. It’s not exactly a speech I have on reserve for him.” 

“Hmm. And yet it’s a speech you have on reserve for me,” I observe, feeling my brows knit and my arms cross even tighter. _“That’s_ fair, I guess.” 

“Catalina, you and I both know that Dick will always do the right thing in every situation — even when it’s _completely_ wrong for him. And he’ll do it with that Instagram-famous smile of his on his face and the belief that everything will turn out all right in the end — never mind any evidence to the contrary or how he actually _feels_ about any of it.” 

At this, the gauntlet is down. My hands grip my biceps. 

“Wow, _cariña._ You must be _psychic._ Knowing how he feels and what he thinks and everything.” I narrow my eyes, my fingers digging into my arms.“Well, since you’re psychic and can read minds and know everything, I’m assuming you can tell the future, too — so tell me, Madame Artemis. Is this _completely wrong_ for him?” 

She gazes at me evenly, unperturbed. 

“Ha, ha,” she says. “No, I wouldn’t say that. But I will say the _timing_ is wrong for him — just like I said right after you first told me about him and you.” 

“Well, sweetie,” I say, “I guess it’s a good thing, then, that Dick and I are grown-ass adults and can make our own decisions. And last I checked, these things don’t particularly care about timing, do they? And if you ask me, this is _perfect_ timing, anyway — kept him from returning to that abusive _bruja_ of his, at least.” 

Artemis’ entire demeanor shifts, and she gives me a look — one laced with warning, making it clear that I’m on extremely thin ice, and equally that I may have unintentionally given myself away a little. _Mierda._ Probably I ought to have kept my mouth shut — but when it comes to Barbara, I just can’t _help_ myself. 

“Barbara is not and was never abusive,” she snaps. “And she’s _definitely_ not a witch. Don’t forget, that girl is my friend, too. If you feel that way about her, fine, but kindly don’t say it in my house or we’re going to have problems.” 

“Are we?” I query. 

“Yes, we are,” she says. “And while we’re at it, since I’m now in the business of making my feelings loud and clear, you’ll do well to remember that _Dick_ is my friend, too.” 

Ah. And here it comes. 

“Meaning?” 

She angles toward me, her face now cold, hard, challenging. 

“Meaning that if you aren’t as genuine as I hope you are, we’re going to have _bigger_ problems — I’ll tell you that here and now,” she says, her voice a low, husky growl. 

Rising to the occasion, I hold her gaze, level, unafraid, unintimidated. I can take this betraying, two-faced _puta_ any day. I outweigh her by upwards of twenty pounds and unlike the rest of you, I’m not skittish about the use of deadly force. 

“Are you threatening me, _cariña?”_ I ask evenly. 

She takes me aback when she huffs something of a half-laugh. 

“Trust me, if I was threatening you, Cat,” she says with a snort, “you sure as hell wouldn’t need me to firm it up for you. Consider this a warning.” 

“A warning,” I say. 

“Yes. Take it or leave it.” 

“I’ll leave it,” I state icily. “And FYI, I don’t appreciate the two-faced making nice game. You may as well just play it straight with me from here on.” 

She shakes her head. “I only ever play it straight and I’m _hardly_ what I’d call two-faced. With me — what you see is what you get.” She sits back. “Look. You _are_ my friend, Catalina — I wasn’t _making nice._ I’m nothing but hopeful for you guys. Just…” She sighs. “Look. I have the bedside manner of a blowtorch and I get _really_ protective of my friends and family. Comments about Babs… They’re going to set me off. Just a warning.” 

“Noted.” I continue to glare. 

“So basically, what I’ve… really ungracefully tried to say up to now is that I just don’t want to see Dick hurt or unhappy. And this whole thing _really_ curb-stomped him — whether you realize that or not.” She looks over at me. “Just… Promise me you’ll do… _be_ the right thing for him — and not the completely wrong thing.” 

“I can do that, _”_ I say, my arms laced so tight my breath is stalling. “I can do that better than any other.” 

_No comments about Babs, Cat. Pero estás jodida,_ I cordially remind myself. 

She nods. “Good. I’m going to hold you to that.” 

Footfalls down the steps, signaling your and Wally’s return, silence any remaining potential for further conversation, even as I seethe furiously with an enormous betrayal and hurt. Of course I knew this news of our relationship and (soon-to-be) expectant status would be a significant bombshell to those around us, but I thought Artemis, at least, would be happy, or even just _accepting._ After all, not only is she _supposed_ to be my friend, but didn’t she say she was protective of you and that she wanted what was best for you on more than one occasion? And yet, she never once lifted a finger to safeguard you from the _bruja maligna_ — she is completely _blind_ to how deeply Barbara has hurt you, and for how long, how systemically. What would _she_ know about what you feel, what’s best for you — truly? 

I mean, my god, _cariño,_ _everyone_ has failed you, haven’t they? They really know _nothing_ of what you need, or even of who you truly are, what it is you want in your heart and soul. It’s a good thing you have me now _—_ otherwise, you would be monstrous Barbara’s slave with your dick on a shelf for the rest of your natural life, with every fool who pretends to be your friend cheering this ludicrous farce on. All of them ought to be jammed in the stocks and have reams of shit and tomatoes pelted in their ignorant faces. 

And now I know where I stand with these supposed “friends” of yours — I am the Other, the Usurper, the Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing. From their misguided, ignorant viewpoint, I am the thief who stole you away from their precious Barbara. I am the _villain_ — the Sea Witch, the Evil Queen, Maleficent — with a silky voice and booming curse delivered unto the dewy-eyed girl. 

They do not even realize that Barbara is the _maldita_ Troll Queen — the tyrant of this kingdom that holds all her browbeaten subjects under her oppressive thumb. In their eyes, she is the sweet, tragic Little Mermaid, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White. Leaving the role of evil villainess to fall to me, instead. 

Well, then. 

I can be the villain in their story — oh, I can do so very easily— and be the _hero_ in yours. 

And what is the first thing a hero in a fairy tale does? 

_Querido,_ you know better than anyone that the hero rides in and valiantly swipes the villain’s prisoner from the dragon-guarded tower. The _caballero blanco_ upon the shining steed — always the role that you have taken. The gallant knight, the noble champion. 

Well, _mi caballero blanco,_ it is high time that someone rode for you. That someone challenged the Troll Queen, defied her spells and decrees, rescued the handsome prince. Swept _you_ away to safety. Was _your_ white knight. 

And do that, I will — here and now. _Tu caballera blanca._

“Dickie,” I murmur after you and Wally reenter the room. I keep my voice hushed, beckoning you to me. 

“Hmm?” You lean down so you can hear me speak. 

“I’m not feeling so well,” I whisper to you, adopting an appropriately woebegone look. “Can we go home now?” 

You frown and incline your head, but you nod. Reaching to me, you stroke a lock of my hair. 

“Sure, babe,” you murmur. “You okay?” 

“Mm-hmm,” I say. “Just feeling a little rough and tired. I don’t think I can make it to the ball drop.” 

You nod, and help me up off the loveseat. As you announce we’re departing and offer your apologies and thanks, there’s askance from Wally, and what looks like _knowing_ from Artemis. I cast her an equally knowing glance as we leave, letting her know exactly where she and I stand — no longer as friends, but as enemy combatants. I subtly block you from hugging her. Sorry, _precioso._ But she is not the friend you think she is. If she was, she would know that _this_ is what is right for you — and not cleave to her own mistaken ideas and beliefs. 

Whatever. I tried, _cariño._ But clearly, it’s time for you to weed your garden — and I know that you never will, clueless to Artemis’ toxic, overbearing perceptions and those of your other barbarian friends as you are. So if I have to be the first to lift the shears, _así que sea._ I will hack, cut, rip up by the roots. You must be safe, guarded, and our children, as well. While you are my prince, _mi caballero blanco_ — I, too, am yours. And I protect what is mine. 

We make it back to Blüdhaven, and settle into bed in my room with the computer streaming the festivities in Time’s Square. It’s lying together with my head resting on your chest that I begin to speak, and allow the tears to flow — and plant the seeds that will rise into the hedges meant to guard you, protect you. By whatever means necessary. 

I protect what is mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buen chico: Good boy  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Y la verdad, por favor: And the truth, please  
> Te amo: I love you (romantic)  
> Querido: Darling, dear (to a lover)  
> Te amo, mi querido: I love you, my darling  
> Te amo, mi princesa: I love you, my princess  
> Claro, guapo: Of course, handsome  
> El Diablo: The Devil  
> Chulo: Cutie (not pimp in this case)  
> Oh, oh: Spanish equivalent of uh, oh  
> Mi hermanito: My little brother  
> Un abuelo: Grandfather  
> Carino/a: Honey, sweetie  
> Hermoso: Handsome  
> Vaya: Man  
> Preciosos: precious (pl)  
> En serio: For real  
> Ay: Eek (or some variant thereof)  
> Mis angeles: My angels  
> Chica: Girl  
> Bruja: Witch  
> Mierda: Shit  
> Puta: Bitch (also whore, but in this case, bitch)  
> Pero estas jodida: Or you’re fucked  
> Bruja maligna: Evil witch  
> Maldita: Damn  
> Caballero blanco: White knight (Cat later uses it on herself as a la noun to indicate a knight that is female, pretty sure it’s an el noun either way, but not 100%?)


	14. Forget Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all!
> 
> What's poppin'! <3 Happy Day of Mercury Coming Out of Retrograde, ha ha! XD
> 
> Here's an early update just for you, darling Shipz! <3 ^_^ Hoping it's up to par! <3 ^_^
> 
> This is a long one, guys, sorry. XD Pretty dense, too... The subject matter is always tough to iron out since it's always going to have a lot of facets to it no matter how you slice it or dumb it down, so hopefully it all comes together smoothly and I didn't forget anything or leave any holes. <3 Bless my BFF/beta for tackling this thing, ha ha.
> 
> Spanish to English at the end!
> 
> Much love to all! <3 ^_^ Happy reading!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 14**

_January 21, 4:48am_

_**Malone**_ _< forget.me@sharklasers.anon>_

_**Birdwatcher**_ _< forget.me2@sharklasers.anon>_

_SUBJECT: V. Important. Read now._

_Birdwatcher,_

_As you know, several matters have come to my attention over recent weeks that we need to discuss ASAP. However, since you seem incapable of making yourself available, in the flesh or otherwise, and since you equally have a shadow who follows you everywhere and I refuse to disturb and risk your work, I will drop all of these matters on you here, and you can confront or respond to them as you see fit. Please do not ignore the contents of this message as you have seemed so determined to since last month._

_I understand that C is none other than your former protégé, the Tarantula. Her alias is no surprise to me, given her connection to the late Jonathan Law, who was a good friend of mine. In our tenure as friends and allies, John of course mentioned her from time to time when the conversations would shift from business to genial following missions, given that she was his partner, trainee, and lover. This should sound awfully familiar to you._

_I crossed paths with C on one occasion in her previous mentorship when she accompanied the Tarantula for a League assignment. She performed admirably, but so much of her behavior evoked some powerful and discomfiting parallels between herself and names I would prefer not to bring into question within this message._

_I had probed the Tarantula about his protégé, having had both my curiosities piqued and my accustomed wariness that you appreciate so much. And Birdwatcher, the woman that Jonathan described was very different from the one that you have insisted you know her to be._

_He was defending her, of course, justifying certain red flag behaviors by explaining to me that she is “just x and y, because of her past and everything.” But several words that he used for her in his explanations were “hotheaded,” “impulsive,” “angry,” and even “manipulative at times” — and these words are now glaring in my remembrance._

_I would like to say, having told you this, that he_ did _maintain that her soul and heart were good, and that she was a perfect candidate for heroism with a little love, understanding, and support. And I knew that I was hardly one to judge such a situation, often having soft spots for them myself. I am hardly in a position to judge such a thing even now._

_However, I have to at least express my concerns, Birdwatcher — it is my fear that you are in over your head and you don’t even realize it. You will get angry with me, doubtless, as you did after my first expressions of concern some weeks ago (which, I’m sure, is why you’ve not come to the house except to visit with the Butler), and that is fine. I understand what you are feeling. But I must ask you to put those feelings aside long enough to hear me out. What you hear, you can do whatever you will with. I acknowledge that you are a grown man and that you can make your own decisions without deferring to me first._

_And now, with all of that said, allow me to commence with the real bulk of the material to be contained within this message._

_I deduced beyond a shadow of a doubt that the current Tarantula is none other than Delmore Redhorn’s murderer — and equally, that you have been well aware of this. Knowing you, however, you took it upon yourself to rehabilitate a person who was hurting and in need of guidance — and hence, you acquired a protégé hardly twenty-four hours after the Blüdhaven Chief of Police was killed. And you have protected her both from the authorities and from the League._

_I do not even need to spell out what an enormous risk that is to your job, your position regarding the League and team, and to your own personal safety. At least — I hope that I don’t need to spell it out._

_As if this were not bad enough, Birdwatcher, I learned that she equally murdered one of Blockbuster’s righthands within his sex trafficking ring. For the first time since you started out on the life sixteen years ago, you were forced to turn to the Angel of Death. And once again, you covered for your trainee, protected her, supported her._

_This rankles in ways I can’t describe. This is_ not you — _and you and I both know it. You’ve stated many times that you have zero tolerance for those that would abuse the enormous power available to them, on the job and in the life. And yet here you are._

_And for what, Birdwatcher?_

_We have been over everything about your relationship with C, all those same issues that others of your friends have brought to your attention. Likely, it was our previous conversation wherein I inquired after these same issues and concerns that’s had you go AWOL. I acknowledge that the subject matter is difficult and angers you, so there is no need to beat a dead horse over the concepts of sabotage and informed consent._

_What I_ will _bring to your attention in this message, other than the fact that you’ve taken on a wildcard that has changed you for the worse — truly a toxic and potentially dangerous influence — is that I am not entirely confident of her intentions or even of whether her word is remotely trustworthy._

_The timing of this pregnancy bothers me. Not merely because it is awful timing for you and Red Riding Hood, but_ because _of you and Red Riding Hood._

_I would like you to ask yourself — and C — one good, deep, penetrating question. And don’t you dare create a pun out of that and pass this off as a joke. It’s_ not _a joke, Birdwatcher._

_Why has C not been to the doctor yet? Why has she ignored my recommendations regarding the doctor to see and failed even to make an appointment? By my factoring, she is into her ninth or tenth week by now, long overdue for the first well visit. You’ll learn the gender at the same time you get the first ultrasound at this rate. More than a little unorthodox._

_You dismissed my last query to this end as silly, paranoid — and then explained that you were navigating the murky, corrupt waters of insurance companies. However, you and I both know, and frankly, so does C, that you can pay comfortably out of pocket from your trust fund (you’re welcome) to cover her expenses._

_It’s food for thought that I urge you to consider. While I understand that it_ is _still early enough that perhaps concern is premature, with all of the other factors of this equation coming into play, I am extremely, extremely concerned. So is Red Riding Hood. So is Brother Hood. So is the Butler. And so is Little Red Riding Hood. Not to mention your friends._

_I want you to think about this. Long, hard, and proper. “Hotheaded. Impulsive. Angry.” And most important… “Manipulative.”_

_I was equally saddened to hear that you are no longer taking to night work, and at the behest of C, no less. Regardless of your life circumstances, the city needs you now more than ever — and not within the restrictions of your daytime employment. B is making serious moves against the BPD, all of the government offices, and the civilian population moreover. You still have responsibilities to the greater picture, Birdwatcher. You can’t withdraw now._

_Please take to heart and consider everything that I’ve said. And remember that regardless of what happens and how this might have sounded, I am here for you. Always._

_~Malone_

I curse and slam the iPhone against the door of the squad car. Gannon, returning from the food truck with two paper bags, catches the tail end of my fury and gives me a lifted brow as he slides back into the seat. 

“Now what’d that iPhone ever do to you?” he asks humorously. “Don’t forget, it’s just the messenger.” 

I run an irritated hand over my hair and get it together. I have too many thoughts and feelings to even acknowledge them while on the job and with Gannon in close proximity. I’ll have to deal with them later. 

Although I _do_ seriously consider texting Bruce something along the lines of, “Just a fun little fact, Bruce — one more step, and Cat is on my insurance. And guess what — _then_ we’ll see the doctor. Thompkins, even. And while we’re on this topic, _Bruce,_ Catalina is the mother of my child, and I’ll bare my teeth and show my claws and protect the hell out of her as such. Even if she’s wrong and when it’s against people I also love and care for. Like yourself, Bruce. Nyeh. _Nyeh,_ I say.” 

Instead, I sedately accept my food from my partner. Opening my text messages means feeling obligated to acknowledge the endless slew of texts my girlfriend has doubtless sent me, and if I try replying to them all, I won’t have time to eat before Gannon and I have to get back to work. 

“Sorry, Gan,” I say. “Didn’t mean to go Hulk-Smash on helpless inanimate objects.” I sigh. “Guess I need to find some chill this morning.” 

He snorts. “Open the window, you’ll find some chill.” 

I laugh. It’s cold enough out to frost your nuts like a cake within a nanosecond of daring to venture into it. 

“So what’s going on, you wanna talk?” Gannon asks through a mouthful of taco salad. 

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good, dude. It was just one of those well-intentioned but totally asshole-ish tough love emails from my foster dad.” 

(Which, since it was sent through my own variant of Guerilla Mail and fondly nicknamed Shark Lasers, will vanish without a trace in… oh, about T-minus three minutes.) 

“Ah, the kind that forces you to remind yourself that vehicular homicide is a crime and that foster patricide isn’t cool?” he asks. 

“Exactly the kind.” I sigh, and start eating my endless feelings with the pile of tacos Gan brought for me. “Hit the brakes, Dickie. Pedestrians in the form of your foster dad are _not_ bonus points.” 

He chuckles. “You know, sometimes I wonder if it’d be public service with some people. Don’t forget, I’m gay and my mom’s one of those smothering Catholic housewives.” 

I chuff a bit. “Has she met Jason?” 

“Not yet,” Gannon says. “I’d like to ease him into my psycho family by degrees. For his sake.” 

I laugh. Gannon’s mother is something else. I’ve met her all of once, and even in that one time I found myself waiting to get brought out into the hallway to have my hands racked with a ruler. 

(As an aside, I can’t even explain how thrilled I am that my brother and my partner are hitting it off so well and so immediately. I just can’t worry about the ramifications of Gannon potentially discovering that Jason is the Red Hood.) 

“So how’s your gal doing?” Gannon asks. “Feeling okay and all that?” 

I consider that for a moment. 

“She seems fine,” I reply. “A little… I don’t know, _stressed,_ maybe, but fine otherwise.” 

“I don’t know if I’d call her stressed,” Gannon says. “ _Clingy’s_ a better word. How many times has she texted you today?” 

“Christ, Gan, not you, too,” I grump and resentfully tear off a mouthful of taco. 

“I’m just saying,” he says, waving a hand. “As your sassy gay friend and everything. It’s my role in your life when we’re not chasing bad guys.” 

“Are we in a chick flick or something now? Am I the female fashion guru with hetero man phobia?” 

“Wait — you weren’t always?” 

“Screw you,” I say, but disarmed, I grin. 

“Hey, I thought you liked _Love and Other Disasters,”_ he says with one of his charming, dimpled half-smiles. 

“Don’t say it so loud!” 

He laughs. “Eh, I’ll just write it on the whiteboard in the bullpen.” He sobers, and looks over at me. “Sorry, man — that all came off a little wrong. I like Catalina, you know that. She’s just… kind of a Stage Five Clinger.” He chuckles. 

“Stage _Four_ Clinger,” I correct him, nudging his arm. The smile falls from my face quickly, though, and I sigh. “Well. You’re not _wrong,_ Gan. But look… with everything Catalina’s been through, it’s totally understandable she’s a little clingy — I mean, _anyone_ would be after all that’s happened to her. She just needs patience and support and — and consistency, I guess? Just until she realizes I’m not going to bounce on her or screw her over or anything. Or die.” 

“Yeah, I’ve heard about her history,” Gan says darkly, nodding. “Bad stuff — like, wicked bad stuff, not denying it. Mat’s called her a shit sponge for a reason.” 

“No one should go through even a _third_ of what she’s been through in ten lifetimes, let alone one,” I say. “And honestly… I kind of doubt the hormones are helping her cause.” 

“Most likely not.” 

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m sure this will all fade after a while. Just need to be patient with her until then.” 

“Well, she’s lucky it’s you, since _her_ level of attention-seeking would try the patience of a freaking archangel. No offense to Catalina or whatever.” He produces a can of Red Bull from the food bag. “By the way, I got this for you. You look dead on your feet, Dickie. I take it she’s keeping you pretty busy, being a Stage Four Pregnant Clinger and everything.” 

I gratefully take the energy drink, and thank him. I pop it open, knock back a sip, and sigh. 

“Yeah. Busy. Try five times a night busy,” I say, passing a hand over my face. “Speaking of hormones…” 

“Five times a _night?”_ he exclaims, jerking his head to look at me. 

I lean my head back against the seat and pout feebly at him. “I’m tired.” 

“God, your cock is gonna pop right off one of these nights at that rate,” he says, shaking his head and chuckling. 

“…Well, to be honest, I probably shouldn’t complain,” I say, lifting a shoulder. “I can think of _way_ worse things than having a smoking hot girlfriend who wants to jump my bones all the time.” 

I look up at the roof of the car, and close my eyes. I’m far from arguing with Catalina, but after weeks of being roused three or more times a night to, you know, _get busy,_ I’m bone… freaking… tired. This is the first time since I punched my V-card that I’ve exercised my dick this much. Six times in a night, yes, I have managed — _a_ night. Singular. Not plural. Not more than one night in a row. And certainly not consecutives of _many_ of those nights over the course of a number of weeks. Even if the sex itself (and just being touched by someone who loves and cares, _period)_ is amazing, I swear I slept more when I was still working as Nightwing — and trust me, it’s not like I slept much then, either. 

I sigh, and opening my eyes, glance wistfully at the rooftops where they loom in gray, angular relief against the washed-out sky. 

I wrestled with guilt over vigilantism when I established myself within the BPD, almost wishing on some level that I could find a defensible out, some solid, indisputable grounds that would excuse me from pursuing it. I wanted to wear my badge and face my boss and partner with a clear conscience and candid pride — and I just couldn’t, knowing I broke the same laws I vowed to uphold on a nightly basis. 

So when Catalina tearfully begged me to stop Nightwing, sobbing that she couldn’t bear it if something were to happen to me, that she’d die if I were to be killed, it didn’t take much persuasion beyond those words and the knowledge of all she’s been through to justify hanging up the mask. It’s not as though my day job fails to carry its own risk of grievous bodily harm (with police work in Blüdhaven, if you’re a _good_ cop in the veins of say, Gannon and Amy, it’s not a matter of if you get seriously injured or killed — it’s when), but with Nightwing out of the picture, the risk that I’ll be sent home to Catalina in a matchbox after getting obliterated by some metahuman psycho is at least significantly reduced. 

But now it’s gone — and everything inside me _aches._

I thought I’d be relieved. But instead I find my spirit and body longing all day and night to feel the leap and adrenaline of the speed lines, the thrill of the chase, the euphoria of a job well done and innocents saved. It’s a part of me, a piece of my soul, so much of my essence and identity. Losing Nightwing, and for keeps this time around, I realize I may as well have chopped my arm off. It’s like going through my life constantly missing something, some critical piece of a machine that I need to live and function. 

Still, it’s one thing or the other, I know, and I’ll choose my family, in particular and _always_ my child, over Nightwing any day — no questions asked, no hesitation. And while Catalina has admittedly been something of a cloying presence — needy and restrictive, even — since I moved into her house after the New Year, it’s a small price to pay. 

Because when I walk through that door after work every day, and I see that big, joyful, genuine smile she gives me when she accosts me with hugs and kisses as she ecstatically welcomes me home — everything _immediately_ feels worth it. 

I can’t focus on the negatives. I can’t focus on the fact that occasionally I feel suffocated, or on how much I miss the mask and the roofs, or on how desperately I wish that everyone could see Catalina the way I do. I can’t let myself worry about the fact that I’ve had to withdraw from Artemis, and subsequently Wally and most regrettably my godchildren, for Cat to feel comfortable and secure since the tiff she had with Artemis over New Year’s — the tiff that hurt my girlfriend to the point of tears, and that she never gave me the specifics of, instead making it abundantly clear that just the mention of Artemis’ name will be taken as a barefaced insult and betrayal. I don’t worry about how powerfully I _miss_ them, and how much I miss Barbara, Zatanna, Raquel — all of whom I’ve lessened contact with to honor Cat’s desire to “build hedges” that will protect our relationship, logic I can’t argue with beyond the weak case that “oh, she can trust me.” I can’t dwell on all of the things that I’ve given up and left behind, on how _sad_ and full of regret it makes me feel, or on the fact that my foster dad is being a totally ignorant, judgmental douche and none of my friends seem to be happy for me. 

Really… It’s just like before. The night of my birthday. If I think too hard on anything other than what’s right in front of me, and fail to focus on what’s _good,_ I’ll never be able to enjoy the things I now have. And they’re plenty — when I choose to see them. 

Life is agreeable with Catalina, full of affection and good laughs and her amazing food and the collective, building excitement over our up-and-coming — as long as she’s assured that I’m not going to leave her, and that she generally gets some variant of her way. And I’m more than happy to let her have her way, and to make her feel secure is mostly to respond to my own natural instincts and love, pamper, and dote on her, anyway — something I can do quite as comfortably as breathing. 

So life is agreeable with Catalina. 

And even if it wasn’t agreeable, I’ve become so damn _excited_ to be a father that a little dissatisfaction and less than perfect bliss would only be pennies in the coffer. Everything about this expectant status makes _anything_ worth it. I knew I wanted kids someday, a family of my own; that I wanted to hear the swish-swoops of little capes, a feeling magnified when I first held my treasured godkids. And even if that someday came a little sooner and less… _smoothly_ than anticipated, I could thrive and find nourishment in the buzzing energy of this excitement and fulfillment alone — and not feel much need for anything else. 

And so, once again, I don’t think, I don’t worry, I don’t question. 

I just do. 

“Well,” Gannon says in response to my earlier words, handing me his trash so I can chuck it, “that’s a fair point. I don’t even swing that way and I can tell you objectively that Cat is a good-looking pair of shoes.” 

I laugh at his reference to the old meme, and hop out of the car to throw the trash out. 

Pulling back out into the flow of traffic between the tall buildings that line the side streets near the Spine, we head back to the station to pick up the outstanding arrest warrants that wait for us. Friday is (drum roll) “Warrant Day!” — the day to round up and bring in the subjects of arrest warrants at about the time the courts are closed for TGIF, forcing the subjects of these ominous sheets of paper to spend an unhappy weekend in jail. It’s become something of a friendly (and sometimes not so friendly) competition within the department, seeing who can get the most arrest warrants served before the end of the day and thrust a two-day vacay in the can on the unlucky folks picked up. 

FYI, I’m _not_ a huge fan of this aspect of the job or how it’s encouraged to be fulfilled. There is a justification in it, of course — for instance, a violent offender who is a danger to those around him/her being forced to cool their heels in the pen, locked safely away from the innocent population for a few days, is never a bad thing — but for those who couldn’t pay a traffic fine because it was either put food on their family’s table or dump an exorbitant wad on a stupid speeding ticket? Come on. It’s totally incogitable to just chuck them in the cooler and risk their jobs and the families they prioritized over an oftentimes bullshit charge. There was one instance where I secretly paid a nice, working class family man’s (totally bogus, and fuck you, Fregley) fines two minutes before closing and allowed him to avoid jail and backlash from the factory at which he worked, and if I could do that without leaving a trail that would risk my own job, I would do it every single time I saw fit. 

Still, the added time with Gannon is nice. And his company at work has been particularly appreciated in the noted absence of the friends that Catalina wants me to _build hedges_ against. I think humorously on the times Barbara teased me over Gan winding up my only friend, and then I realize with a jolt that this has suddenly become somewhat true. By proxy, I’ve fallen farther out of touch with others of my friends as I’ve pulled gently back from the ones Catalina specified — and now, my social life is basically me and Cat and a daily dose of my partner at work. 

Oh, _jeez._

But then, it’s Gannon — and he’s good enough people to constitute ten besties. And I’m sure everyone will have come around by the time the baby arrives, Cat included — I just need to ride out this storm in the meantime. When it all blows over, everyone will be holding hands and singing Kumbaya and forgetting there was ever even a second of tension at any point. 

It’ll be okay. 

Gannon and I bump fists, armed with the outstanding arrest warrants handed us by Amy (and she at least tends to give us justifiable ones), and head out to get grinding. 

Not in the way he and Jason do. Ha, ha. 

My partner drives so I can assure Cat via text that I’m still alive. Ten minutes or so into our search, waiting at a red light, I notice a man loitering outside none other than Elbows. He’s bedecked in a black bomber jacket and jeans, the weak light of the sun that peeps through the clouds gleaming on his sunglasses and bald head. He stands, perceivably nervous, and looks around, his shoulders hunched and tense, his lips power-nursing a cigarette. He pulls a phone out of his pocket — a burner phone, not a smartphone or even just an archaic cell phone — and thumbs it, then looks around again. He shuffles, checks his pockets, pats his sides under his coat. Those finely honed Bat senses tingling into overdrive, I lift my brows at this and lean forward to attempt a better look — if that’s not checking to ensure that weapons are in their proper positions, I’m Jon Snow and I know nothing. I nudge Gannon, and indicate the man as he drops the cigarette and grinds it out on the sidewalk. 

“Gan,” I say. “You see that dude?” 

He looks. 

“Now that’s a trademark Shady Dude if I ever saw one,” he says, frowning as Baldy nervously moves toward the back of the bar and disappears. And to my recollection, Elbows doesn’t actually open until seven pm. 

“Want to follow him in and see what’s up?” I ask. 

“Yeah, let’s do it,” Gannon agrees, shrugging. “Checking out a painfully overtly suspicious character is more interesting than traipsing around the Blüd chasing outstanding warrants, anyway. What’s the probable cause?” 

“Routine check should work — and if nothing else, we can nail him for littering,” I say. “I mean, we _could_ be totally off-base here and unfairly profiling the guy, but dumping a cigarette butt isn’t cool either way. Gotta keep Blüdhaven green and pretty.” We both snicker. The Haven is anything but. I reach over to the comm on the dash. “I’ll call it in — by the way, you might want to park it a ways off. Elbows’ owner is already suspicious and we’ll need to come up with a game plan before we just bust on in to serve up an eco-friendly reminder to a guy who’s wearing a dead animal.” 

I call it into dispatch, and then Gannon and I come up with something of a battle plan. The grounds of littering and a routine check should hold up in court in case we come upon any sketchy dealings within the confines of Elbows, already a common hot spot for nefarious deeds within Blüdhaven’s criminal underworld. Strange to think it’s the location that led me to where I find myself now. 

“Front door?” Gannon asks. 

“Yeah. Keep everything on the up-and-up,” I say, and we leave the cruiser to walk the block to the club. 

The front door proves itself locked, and we knock. Several times. In fact, it takes eighteen efforts at knocking (I’m nothing if not persistent) before Bangar, a face I know well, since when I worked nights as a rookie I was called to Elbows at the least three times a week, shows up behind the glass. He visibly clenches his jaw, and opens the door. 

“Officer Dickie,” he says, looking nothing shy of incensed. The sound of punk music filters into the air from behind him. No immediate sight of Baldy. “The fuck you doing knocking on my door this early?” 

“Well, nice to see you, too, Bangar,” I say lightly. “You know, I’d rather you opened this conversation with something like ‘nice uniform, you look important today,’ or ‘hey, you’re gettin’ swole, there, Dickie,’ but I guess that’s not in the cards this afternoon, is it?” 

He shakes his head. “Don’t joke. Meet me in the back. Eyes and ears too close here.” 

I look over at Gannon, and we acquiesce — although we’re both noticeably a lot more tense than we were two minutes ago. As we walk, I take stock of our surroundings, just in case. 

Bangar cracks the big, metal door to the back entrance open just as we arrive under its overhang. Sheltered by the dumpster on one side, we meet him there. 

“Look,” he whispers. “Unless you got a warrant and some serious backup, you’re gonna wanna fuck off right now. And take that cupcake with ya.” 

I frown. Bangar and I are actually fairly friendly — this hostility seems more than a little odd. 

“You brought us around the back to tell us that?” I query, inclining my head. 

“Eyes and ears aren’t as likely reach this spot right this second,” he murmurs. “Anyway, trust me. You just don’t wanna be here unless you got the big guy in black and blue with ya. Consider that a friendly warning, not a threat, officers — handed out because I happen to not completely hate your guts, Officer Dickie. Though I couldn’t give a fuck about this guy. No offense.” 

Gannon’s jaw sets. 

“Dude, you know talking like that we’re going to have to come in and take a look — and I don’t want to nail you with obstructing official business if you happen to try getting in the way,” I tell Bangar, already moving forward. 

“Dickie, I really wouldn’t do it,” Bangar says with increasing urgency. “And listen, you can do whatever you want later — send an investigative team out here or what have you to check the place out, I don’t care — you just don’t wanna be here _now.”_

“Bangar,” comes a familiar voice from the shadows past his shoulder, overpowering the muffled sound of the Buzzcocks over the speakers inside. I tense immediately, planting my feet and adopting a ready stance on pure reflexive instinct, and Gannon, noticing my body language and at the ready himself, places a hand on his weapon. 

As for Bangar, he completely deflates — all roughly two hundred and fifty pounds of him just shriveling like burning paper beneath the sound of that voice. 

And I don’t blame him. The voice is none other than Roland Desmond’s. Blockbuster’s. 

_Shit,_ I think wildly, even as the thought that the inept, paranoid crook that gave all of this away in the first place is probably going to meet an unpleasant and untimely death at the hands of this hulking crime boss if we don’t bust this successfully right now. And while I like my odds against Desmond as Nightwing — I am _not_ crazy about them as Corporal Grayson, with these starchy, stiff uniform slacks, this inelastic button-down and coat, these cheap shoes that couldn’t grip gravel, and this decided lack of an appropriately equipped utility belt. We’ll need to call for backup, and considering that a lot of cops at the station are still in Blockbuster’s pocket, God only knows what purpose the action will actually serve, unless Amy shows up with them. My stance shifts, my hand going to hover just over the hilt of my nightstick, subtly, but prepared and in position. 

I look around without moving my head much, further mentally stockpiling available strategies and resources in case this gets hairy, and with the arrival of Blockbuster, it will tout-suite. Dumpster to our left. Overhang above us. Fenced concrete lot around us, dead ending at the back corner of the building. A truck parked at the far end of the lot by the fence. An alley along the side of the club past the dumpster. 

“What justifies electively opening the back door of a closed establishment to two clearly bored and entitled officers of the law?” Desmond asks, his deep, rumbling voice falsely pleasant. He nudges Bangar aside, and stepping fully into the weak, canting Blüdhaven afternoon light, looms at his full monolithic height over Gannon and me. 

“Well,” he states, crossing his massive arms. “Care to share why you’ve dropped in on my friend and me here this pleasant afternoon, gentlemen? This establishment is closed until seven.” 

“Cool,” I say. “Can we drop back in later, then?” 

I’m joking, but Blockbuster doesn’t notice. 

“I wouldn’t recommend coming around later, either,” he says. “Not unless you have very substantial probable cause or a search warrant. Without either of those things…” His arms uncross, his mammoth shoulders squaring. “Well, you know quite as well as I do that Inspector Soames wouldn’t like to hear that you were harassing the son of his good friend. And I won’t hesitate to lodge a complaint.” He leans down, his brutish face like a brick slab. “I repeat. This establishment is closed. Isn’t it, Bangar.” 

This last is more a statement than a question. Bangar remains zipped-lipped beside Desmond. He’s fucked right along with Baldy if Gannon and I don’t get Blockbuster in cuffs soon. 

“…Can’t say I care too much about what ol’ Dudley has to say,” I state. (And it’s true. I don’t. Amy generally doesn’t, either.) “Or if this establishment is closed. The fact is, there _are_ people in there — one of whom we’d like to have a little chat with. And on that note, our probable cause is perfectly sound and involves a very serious littering allegation — Officer Malloy and I saw the whole thing. Want to step aside and allow us to find our litterbug so we can just do our jobs hassle-free? Then we can be on our merry way to make some cash for the city, no harm, no foul, and you can get back to whatever malfeasance you’re up to in here.” My feet plant a little firmer into the pavement. “What do you say?” 

Blockbuster looks over at Bangar, and it’s then I hear the distinct sound of a man’s muffled scream, sudden and barking and frantic, breaking the cadence of the Buzzcocks. Gannon hears it, too. 

“You watching a snuff film in there,” Gannon murmurs, his hand tightening on his gun, “or are you filming one?” 

“Bangar,” Desmond says, stepping toward us, “when I give the word, shut the door. These two gentlemen are going to have themselves a little tragic accident — can’t have them here at this moment. Or any moment.” 

It happens in a flash — so quickly that even Walls might have been impressed. But before Gannon can effectively draw his weapon and just as I get a grasp on my nightstick, Blockbuster’s swiped us by handfuls of our uniform coats and hurled us into the interior of the club — a chuck that arches us probably over a good fifteen feet like a pair of rag dolls. In the stiff, unyielding uniform, I can’t as effectively defend myself from the attack — the best I can do is position my body for a better landing. (Fighting in tuxedos is the same deal.) I wind up a ways off from Gannon, but I’m upright in a heartbeat as Blockbuster marches toward me. I take note of the fact that Bangar is nowhere in sight — likely, he’s rabbited into the city. (Wise move for now, although he’s in trouble with both Desmond and the law later.) 

I don’t know why Blockbuster is after me specifically as his first would-be victim. But I’m grateful to God, the universe, fate, whatever that Desmond decided not to immediately favor Gannon. 

This augmented metavillain is nothing shy of gargantuan, comparable in body mass to a grizzly bear, his alterations making him all but bulletproof, and it’s safe to assume he’s also armored as an added precaution beneath his suit — meaning it would take _more_ than eight rounds from a high-powered shotgun to even slow him down. So the revolver rounds Gannon fires into Blockbuster’s back as he advances on me go largely unnoticed. They’re no worse than bee stings to him, Amy assured the department during a briefing, stressing that if ever engaged in any way by Roland Desmond, start firing. Unless Gan pops off a perfect headshot to Blockbuster’s more vulnerable capitulum — and although my partner’s a good marksman, a moving target will render his ability to land one more unlikely — Desmond will shrug off the ones that wind up sticking with tweezers and a couple of Bandaids later. 

The barks of the shots echo even as I skirt Blockbuster’s fists and motions when he engages me in hand-to-hand. I long for the Nightwing suit and alter my fighting style based on what I have available — and anyway, I know that I can’t tap into my full combat repertoire and risk giving myself away. I’ve gone toe-to-toe with Desmond as Nightwing enough times that if I apply my usual fighting style to this brawl, he’ll undoubtedly pick up on it and make the connection. _No bueno._

We parry a moment, me using the nightstick to maintain some distance with some tolerable efficacy — up until Desmond backhands me and sends me sprawling backward halfway across the room, effectively dislodging the nightstick from my grip as I hit the ground hard and bouncing. I reach for the stick, dimly registering that Gannon’s calling for backup as Blockbuster moves to stomp my skull. He misses as I roll away, leaping to my feet to keep up the fight. The fight that doesn’t happen when one soccer kick from Roland bounces my legs out from under me and sends me to my back. Getting back to my feet ends up with Blockbuster hurling me unceremoniously into the wall. 

“Come on, you motherfucker!” I hear Gannon bellow, and like that, my partner’s reloading and raising his gun to fire again. Blockbuster turns his attention to him, and with a snort, strides in Gan’s direction, undaunted by the revolver. 

Okay. Screw giving myself away. Time to quit holding back. 

I yank out my cuffs and spring into action, funneling out the disorientation from getting chucked around like a toy. I leap to clamber like a spider monkey atop Roland’s shoulders. Before he can get his enormous mitts on me, I get the chain of my cuffs around his neck, jerking and pulling, attempting to bring him down in whatever way I can. He backs up swiftly, and knowing what he’s about to do, I release him before he can slam me into the wall beneath his weight — that’ll crush my ribs like a pop can in a second and leave Gannon to fend for himself until backup arrives. I have faith in my partner, but he is woefully ill-equipped for a hand-to-hand fight with Roland Desmond — and I can’t let it come to that. 

I get free, but then Blockbuster seizes my wrist in one big hand and my shoulder in the other, forcing me to spin into something of a turnover to avoid having him break my arm. Then I damn near split my pants in a Muay Thai down round kick to his extended forearm, executed with my wrist still in Desmond’s grip, a move that thankfully buys my way out of his grasp. Blockbuster goes in for a hit, and I tuck into a tight, compressed walkover to avoid the blow, putting some distance between him and me. It’s now that Gannon gets up close and personal with our opponent, jumping into the fray with all the abandon of someone who knows damn well they’re going to lose and entertains a full-on case of the fuck-its. 

“Gan, don’t —” I shout, leaping to impose myself between them, but not in time to keep my partner from trading a handful of blows and finally taking a profound backhand swipe that thrusts his forearm into his face, turning his own block against him and taking him off his feet and sending him sailing through the air. He lands in an unmoving heap, out cold. 

And now, ladies and gentlemen — _now_ I get good and pissed. 

I unleash on Blockbuster, attacking him like a furious, cornered animal. I fight with every ounce of my rising spirit and hold my own against this colossus, even if I’ve put on some hindering bulk in the last weeks I’ve dropped the high octane Nightwing activity and increased the weight and bar training to compensate somewhat. I haven’t lost my flexibility and I’m noticeably stronger, but the uniform alone sacrifices my bodily elasticity, and the added mass slows me down. Catalina deliberately feeding me healthy, swole-ifying, protein rich foods hasn’t helped. With these changes, I think vaguely as I twist away from one of Blockbuster’s clumsy but _extremely_ dangerous full-powered swats (I take even one of those directly, and that’s all, folks), I’ll have to get a little cozier with Bruce’s ground-and-pound fighting style if I’m going to survive any brawl from here on. 

We face each other now, my fist and the nightstick raised. I’m breaking a good sweat, the perspiration mingling with the blood from the myriad minor cuts that roadmap my body. I notice with satisfaction that Blockbuster looks a little less bouncy himself in the yellow overhead light. 

“You’re a little more capable than the average officer,” he observes. “I would even say you have some impressive physical acumen, Corporal Grayson. A background in martial arts, I assume?” 

I shrug, subtly keeping an eye on my unconscious partner. Relief floods through me when I see him begin to rouse, one arm lifting, his head turning. 

“I watch a lot of B karate movies. You pick up a lot from those,” I say. “Plus — _Flying_ Grayson, doy. Where’ve _you_ been, Roly-Poly?” 

“Or you’re fighting for something other than yourself,” he states. “There’s a not a cop in this city cares about his own skin that would put up a fight like this — they’d rabbit off and leave their partners to take their share.” He inclines his lapidarian head. “You have a family at home, a woman, a baby? Hmm… Of course you do. A nice-looking young man like yourself.” 

He’s not the first to apply this strategy, that of egging me on, seeking weaknesses and chinks in my armor, attempting to play on them. I thrust all thoughts of Catalina and the baby from my mind, knowing I can’t let Blockbuster see that I _do_ have a family at home waiting for me to return, depending on me, even as another pang of satisfaction pops up alongside the trepidation and resolve that thoughts of my girlfriend and unborn child light in me. I’ve given this big bad a good enough run for his money now that he’s looking for alternate approaches to take me down. And backup should be here any second — if Amy’s heading the response, everything will turn out fine, even if the crooked contingent of cops is in tow. 

I just need to keep him talking. 

“I _do_ care that much about my own skin,” I say cheerfully, keeping my fist and the stick up. “I’ve got a modeling contract with Guess, actually — can’t exactly have you messing up my pretty mug, now, can I?” 

From the corner of my eye, I watch Gannon as he slowly, deliriously sits up, then reaches for his gun, lying a few feet away from him. He lifts the weapon to train it on Blockbuster. 

I keep talking, attempting to keep Desmond’s attention on me, but when Gan pulls the hammer back, quietly as he can, it still produces enough sound that our enemy hears it over my own voice and the muffled noise of the speakers through the wall — and Blockbuster turns his attention to my partner, turning away from me and stepping toward him with big strides that cover the distance in seconds. 

From his coat, Desmond, through the little twitches of the landing bullets, produces a machete — barely a dagger in his enormous hand — and raises it over Gannon, a hulking, slab-faced executioner. 

I move. 

I barely hear the sounds of the gunshots as Gannon unloads the final rounds in his weapon for a second time into Desmond, and sprint toward them, formulating a plan on the fly. My partner keeps firing, coming perilously close to emptying the gun, while his certain doom lifts into the air, feet and seconds away. One shot skins past Blockbuster’s ear and hair, but it’s too little, too late. Even with the revolver and semi-strike, Gan doesn’t stand a chance — and neither do I. 

That doesn’t matter. 

I bellow a bunch of words intended to distract Blockbuster and spring over the remaining space, barreling into Gannon like an enraged scrum half and shoving him well out of Blockbuster’s reach. The blade lands in the floor, missing me by a minor technicality of spatial orientation, and with an annoyed grunt, Desmond thrusts an angry kick into my side. The blow lays me out on my back with a huff as the wind gets knocked right out of me. 

Even with all my training and experience, even if I were in the flexible Nightwing suit, even if I weren’t weeks out of the game, even if the circumstances were previously favored to perfection for me to triumph in this fight — it wouldn’t make any difference in this single split second, and it doesn’t. The machete catches the weak light of the overhead bulb as it cants above me, falling too fast to be stopped. Gannon’s shout fills my ears in a confusing, reverberating shriek when the blade slams into my belly at the right internal oblique, piercing my coat, shirt, vest, undershirt — and flesh. The breath goes out of me in a burst just as time slows to a crawl and everything at once goes completely numb. I _feel_ the blade, shifting around inside my body, until Blockbuster jerks it away. 

Not good. Oh, not good. _Big_ time not good. Disaster, even, and possibly heavy on the dis. 

Well, nothing for it — I _have_ to stay whelmed. Blockbuster still has his machete, and Gannon is still about to run out of ammo. I rise, one hand pressed to my bleeding abdomen, and wrestle a moment with my much larger opponent with my other hand. I lost the nightstick somewhere, probably letting go of it when I got impaled on the machete like we’re all suddenly in a _Friday the 13th_ movie. But I _have_ to keep our enemy’s mind off my partner until backup gets here, whatever that might take. 

Desmond is chuckling a bit ungraciously all the while I fight one-handed with him, clearly screwing with me, something that makes me feel a bit like laughing, too — because really, why not? Catalina is going to fucking _kill_ me when I get home pouring blood from a giant slit in my gut if said ouchie doesn’t finish the job first. And here I quit Nightwing to avoid exactly this sort of thing — and then after years of skipping off scot-free of injury from both lines of work, within a few weeks of dropping one dangerous job, _wham._ It’s like a big, cosmic joke. 

I’m dimly aware of more gunshots and Gannon’s infuriated cries, of the thought that I should keep fighting, of the fact that my limbs aren’t really listening anymore and I’m losing the feeling in my entire body. I don’t think the stab wound is serious, but even so, a lot of my functions seem to be stalling out on me. 

The wail of sirens echoes weirdly in and out of my hearing, and I lose track of my surroundings as I slide down Blockbuster’s side, failing to initiate a grapple, until I grasp his ankle. 

I feel a shaking, jolting sensation, then there’s the sound of shouting, more barking gunfire, and an indeterminate flurry of commotion, all of which passes around me with the bizarre, colorful, pulsing quality of a vivid dream. I realize I lost hold of Desmond at some point that I didn’t really notice, lying now on my stomach empty handed, gazing unfocused at the black-painted wall, which swims psychedelically in my blurring vision. 

“Shit,” I try muttering, and fail, instead popping a thick, viscous blood bubble over my lips. 

Amy’s voice filters into my buzzing hearing, shouting that there’s an officer down, and as I try to glance around and see who she’s talking about, I realize it’s me. 

I don’t habitually freak out when I’m hurt — it’s not as though I haven’t been clobbered unconscious, shot, stabbed, sliced, or etc. on a gajillion and one occasions in my lifetime, and I’m trained to cope with even the most grievous bodily harm — but abruptly Catalina springs into my thoughts, along with the equalizing knowledge of what this gigantic mess is going to _do_ to her. Then, and _worse,_ I think of our baby — and what a bad ending here and now will spell for the one who, in a matter of weeks, has become the single most important thing in my entire world. All at once my heart, which has been slowing down with my breathing and the passing of time, kickstarts itself back into action with a vengeance. I breathe now hard and fast, gagging and choking on the blood that’s gunked up in my throat. And with the return of awareness and function — there’s a lightning burst of pain in my abdomen, bolting through the rest of my body in an incinerating rush. My teeth clench to snapping, my limbs go taut, and I completely forget the concept of respiration for one stiff, paralyzed moment. 

The old Bat training, however, pops back into my brain like a helpful, servile jack-in-the-box, reminding me in a cheerful voice to channel the agony, breathe into it, and release its rancor on the exhale. _Anchor your spirit inside your body, separate yourself from the injury as a separate entity!_ it declares gleefully, oblivious to the fear and pain that continuously pull me under their alternating tidal waves. It takes a moment to stop from going to pieces, but under the joyous, admonishing voice of the Bat training jack-in-the-box, I manage. 

Tolerably calm now and ready to rally, I open my eyes. 

I’m on my back, although I can’t remember how I got into this position. Amy’s all over me, pressing handfuls of first aid issue gauze down on the wound to my abdomen, talking to me. Gannon is doing the same beside her, his bruised, freaked-out face flitting in and out of sight between my eyelashes, which have suddenly gone too heavy. My uniform button down and vest are laid open and my undershirt hiked up. A bunch of other officers shift nebulously about, presumably securing the scene or dealing with whatever Gannon and I dropped in on before our _pas de trois_ with Desmond. 

I think I ask about Blockbuster, but I might have asked about a recipe for tomato soup for all I know, since I can’t hear myself speaking in any sort of intelligible fashion. 

“Dick, just shut the fuck up for once, would you?” Gannon snaps, his voice yanked corset-tight in an effort at control, _these_ words issued so forcefully I can’t fail to register them. “Catalina’s gonna have a meltdown and Jason’s already going to _kill_ me for letting this happen — you do your damn self in running your mouth and he’ll slap my corpse on top of it.” 

“He’ll — mushroom stamp it —” I wheeze in an effort at a joke, trying to assure my partner I’ll be fine, even as I gush blood in a steady, even river through the gauze and over the waist of my uniform slacks. Which, I register, are indeed ripped up the back — given that I can distinctly feel the cold, hard surface of the floor under my ass through the thin material of my briefs. I can’t help it. I giggle a bit at that, although it turns promptly to a choke and cough. 

“Yeah, you’re funny, partner,” Gannon says. I feel his hand squeeze mine. “ _Please_ shut up now.” 

“No,” I say thickly. “I split my pants.” 

Another giggle is lost in the pocket of blood in my throat. 

“Dick. Stop talking,” Amy orders. “EMS is on its way.” 

I acquiesce, overwhelmed now with a permeating sleepiness, and I close my eyes, knowing that I’ve had _way_ worse than this injury and I should be okay to doze. Even if I’ve got a long road to recovery ahead of me, evidenced by the amount of blood and the tightening knot in my abdomen, this wound really isn’t so terrible. Gannon and Amy both urge me to stay awake, my boss insisting she said to stop talking, not start sleeping, but while Amy might have more cop experience (technically) than I do and Gannon has seen plenty of shit in his day, I’ve got them both beat in injury XP. So even though they scold and persist, I ignore them, and let myself slip down under the welcoming surface of a deep, black, dreamless sleep. 

xxxxx 

“… _Bienvenido de nuevo, mi querido.”_

I crack one eye open, and groggily look over at Catalina. Her face is blurred, swimming in and out of focus. I reach up, and scrub at my gritty eyes. 

“ _Hola, princesa,”_ I say, my voice a light, pitiful whisper. There’s a painless, heavy piano sitting on my abdomen, compressing my respiration and my words. Every inhalation _stops_ at about a quarter of the way in, rendering my breathing forcibly shallow. I take a slow, careful breath, all the way in, and release it. The cannula in my nostrils makes that an easier task, at least. With a watery rush, I realize where I am — RABE — and what happened to land me here. 

“ _¿Cómo te sientes, cariño?”_ Catalina asks, her voice stalling my momentary panic when I think on Gannon and Blockbuster. She reaches over and strokes my hair. It feels nice, and soothed somewhat, I relax a little. First things first. 

“Okay,” I say. “Sleepy.” 

She smiles, and it’s then I see the tears poised precariously on her lower lash line. I reach over, and take her hand. 

“Are you in any pain?” she asks. 

I shake my head, and notice I’m on a drip. I can’t see what’s in it, but considering how I feel (which is pretty okay, minus the intense drowsiness), I’m guessing they pulled out all the stops. 

“No,” I tell her, and squeeze her fingers. “Whatever they’ve got me on has a pretty good kick.” 

She smiles a little, the expression wan at best. 

“Is Gannon okay?” I ask. 

She nods. “He’s fine. He wants to see you when you’re ready.” 

“I’m game any time,” I tell her, then take a second to catch my breath. Talking is an effort. “Did you happen to hear anything about what’s going on with Blockbuster or his goons or anything?” 

She shakes her head. “Sorry, _mi amor._ I’m guessing Gannon can tell you, but you really shouldn’t worry about it for now. I’m sure Roly-Poly is crying to his mama about everything while she makes his gigantic _culo_ a pile of milk and cookies.” 

I huff a laugh, and regret it. Even if the meds are keeping the pain from cropping up, it doesn’t mean my stomach is functioning properly. 

It’s now the tears fall over Cat’s lashes, and she grips my fingers so hard it hurts. 

“I’ll kill that _hijo de puta el cabrón,”_ she hisses. “I’ll find him and I’ll kill him. _I’ll kill him.”_

I squeeze her hand. “No need for drastic measures, Catalina. At this point, he’s a cop… almost killer. That’s an especially low and disagreeable degenerate in the eyes of the law, even in the crooked BPD. He’ll get his eventually, don’t worry.” 

“Dick,” she says, and she’s _really_ crying now, all tears and contorted features and hitching shoulders. My tight, knotted stomach declines at the sight. “…Do you know how scared I was?” 

“Aw, Cat,” I say, a heavy onus slowly washing through the sore, tired cavity of my chest. I hold my free arm out, gently pulling her to me by the hand I hold. “I’m sorry.” 

She readily sits on the edge of the hospital bed and nestles close, mindful of my abdomen. She shakes her head. 

“You have no idea,” she whispers. “ _No idea,_ Dick. I was _so sure_ you were going to die.” 

I kiss the crown of her hair. “I’m still here, babe.” 

She lifts up and shakes her head. “Barely, _tu idiota!_ That bastard ran you through with a goddamn machete! You were in surgery for _hours!_ I was _so scared —”_

She dissolves even more now, sobbing loudly and unabashedly. Stricken, I draw her to me. 

“I’m okay, _cariña,”_ I tell her. “I’m okay. Everything’s okay.” 

“No, Dick!” she insists, sobbing. “ _No está bien —_ you are _severely injured!_ You could have _died!”_

I release her, and lay a hand on her wet cheek. I shake my head. 

“Hey. I didn’t, though,” I say. “And I’m not going to. Not any time soon, anyway. Promise.” 

“John promised the same thing,” she says bitterly. 

I gently thumb her orbital. “Yeah, but I’m still here, and I’m not going anywhere. You know I’m not going to leave you and that baby. I swear.” 

“John did.” 

I give her a gentle shake. “Well, I’m not.” I half-smile encouragingly. “And I think I’ve put in my dues for a while, anyway. I’m probably safe from grievous bodily harm for at least a year or two after this.” 

“Men like you are _never_ safe from grievous bodily harm.” 

“Cat,” I murmur softly, drawing her again to me. “I’ll be fine, okay? Promise. It’s been eons since I was hurt bad enough to land in the hospital, anyway. And it won’t happen again — especially not with the mini en route. I swear it. Don’t worry.” 

She shakes her head against my chest, and I just spend some time holding her, letting her cry. I whisper to her, assuring her I’m still here, that I’m not going anywhere, that everything’s all right, that everything _will_ be all right. For her part, she cleaves to me, burrowing in as close as she physically can, careful around my injured abdomen. 

We’re interrupted just as she’s settling down and her tears are tapering by the beginnings of painful, insistent twinges in my abdominals that increase in urgency by the second — indicating it’s past time to punch the button before I take a face-first plunge into absolute hell. I have an intense pain tolerance, but it has its limits, and I am still in the hospital. So I cave for the moment, releasing Cat with a grunt that clearly communicates my mounting discomfort, and she sits up, leaning back. I fumble with the pump while she scrubs at her cheeks, and takes a breath. 

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I just… I guess I just needed to get that out. Vent off some of the steam, you know. I’ve been like a pressure cooker since they first brought you in here.” 

I shake my head and squeeze her hand. “It’s okay, babe.” 

With a sheepish expression, she grinds the heel of her hand into her forehead, and gives me a rueful smile. “God, _mi amor,_ I’m _so_ sorry. You’ve been through so much already, you definitely don’t need my psycho womanly vapors to add to it.” 

I chuckle, and again, shake my head. “It’s all right, Cat. You don’t need to be sorry, okay?” 

She takes a breath, and releases it. “Mat says to get better soon, by the way. You know he lit a candle for your speedy recovery as soon as he heard? I can’t even remember the last time that boy went to church.” 

I chuff weakly, my eyelids feeling as though they weigh ten thousand pounds as the soft tides of easy relief pull me under their inviting surface. The drugs are definitely working. A reminder as to why they can be very, very dangerous. Probably shouldn’t get used to this. 

Cat reaches over and strokes my hair. “Well. Do you want anything, _querido?”_

“Water, maybe, if that’s okay.” 

“ _Por supuesto, hermoso,”_ she says, and calls for the nurse. I rest, soothed by the feeling of Catalina’s hand running gently through my hair, until the assigned RN turns up with a giant, hospital issue water bottle, the kind with a straw, full of icy, amazing, magical water that soothes my parched throat. She takes my vitals while Cat fussily helps me drink, and then mentions kindly that the doctor will be in to see me shortly before leaving the room. 

Catalina watches her leave, then smiles at me. “Well, are you hungry?” 

I shake my head. “Nah, I’m good. Thanks, Cat. Can you do me a favor and call Gannon, though? I need to ask him something.” 

Even in my drowsiness and discomfort, I’m _dying_ to know what happened after I lost consciousness back at Elbows. 

“Oh, _claro,”_ she says. “You know he’s here — and so are Alfred, Bruce, and Jason, actually.” 

“Really? Where are they?” I query with interest. 

“In the cafeteria,” she answers. “Alfred insisted they get something to eat. You know they haven’t left this room since they were first allowed to come up this morning?” She pauses a moment, visibly thinking. “You’re lucky, Dick. _So_ lucky. To have so many people who care so much about you.” She casts her eyes down. “…Sometimes I think I’d die for that, you know?” 

I finger a lock of her hair. “Catalina.” 

She looks up at me. 

“… _I_ care, _cariña,”_ I tell her. 

“Well,” she says fondly. “That’s enough for me.” 

I smile at her. 

“So why didn’t you go eat with everybody?” I ask, thinking that if it’s because Bruce was a douche at any point to her, so help me God I will _equalize_ him, never mind the fact that I’d be leaking Ramon’s Taco Truck if not for the good surgeons of RABE. 

“I couldn’t leave you, _guapo,”_ she says. 

Mollified, I brush the lock of hair behind her ear. 

“Cat,” I admonish gently. “You need to eat, _Mamá Osa.”_

She smiles and waves a hand. “Oh, _basta._ Stop worrying about me, lying there with a gaping hole in your gut. Alfred said he’d bring something back for me, anyway. Besides, it’s more important to stay hydrated.” 

I smile back. “Okay, _princesa._ Have you been staying hydrated?” 

“ _Sí, mi amor. Lo prometo.”_ She raises her right hand. “Scout’s honor.” 

“Okay, good.” I sigh, and close my eyes. “Well, if anyone’s going to come up, they’d better do it soon, because I don’t think I’m going to be staying awake much longer.” 

I feel her squeeze my hand, and hear her as she says, “Okay, _guapo._ One second and I’ll round them up, huh?” 

The doctor on duty comes in while she’s gone, asking me some questions and giving me the rundown on what’s happened to me, how long I was out (twenty-eight hours), what procedures they performed on me, and what to expect from here. Some visceral damage (rectified), impressive blood loss, contusions, lacerations, etc. Two weeks of total bed rest, two weeks past that of partial bed rest, six weeks overall of pelvic rest, projected six to twelve total weeks for recovery. I need to spend at least five days in the hospital to be sure I’m healing properly and without wound infection. 

Ugh. Well, this is going to suck some serious donkey balls. Bedrest is not a word found in my personal dictionary. I can’t even sit still when I’m sick. God, I hope this won't delay taking the detective's exam... 

“So when can I go back to work?” I ask after she shows me how to use the spirometer. 

“Oh, I’d say you can resume light duties in maybe… six, seven weeks. Full duty, I’d give it about ten to twelve just to be safe. But hey, it’s police work. There’s _always_ a ton of paperwork for you to get up to and keep busy with in the meantime.” 

I should be _just_ able to come off my recovery period and take the exam. Phew. I chuckle a bit, thinking that Cat is going to have an actual cat over the pelvic rest bit. “Fair enough.” 

I close my eyes, and next thing I know, the sound of Gannon’s voice pops my anvil-heavy lids back open. 

“I’m just going to tell you here and now that this is _all_ your fault.” 

I smile over at him, happy to see him. And the others. Catalina, Jason, Alfred, and Bruce are in tow. 

“Probably,” I agree, then reach weakly up with one arm to embrace him when he immediately and without hesitation leans down to gingerly wrap his arms around my shoulders. 

“Oh, everything’s Dickie’s fault, he’s used to it,” Jason concurs, coming in now to (somewhat uncustomarily) initiate a hug when Gannon backs away. “By the way, bro — you look like a bag of smashed assholes.” 

I groan, although I smile. “You guys are already making me miss the literally beeping quiet.” 

There’s a flurry of conversation and greetings, hugs and remonstrations from Alfred, a press of Bruce’s hand to my forehead. Which, for him, is a pretty enormous stretch toward affection, and grateful to him not only for coming and expressing care and concern, but for being kind to Catalina while he’s here, I’ll happily take it. He tells me that Tim, who’s off-world for a mission, sends his best, as well as the rest of the team. 

Eventually, the others respectfully clear out when I ask if I can please talk to Gannon alone. No offense intended, I tell them, I just have tons of questions and I’m two seconds from dropping off, it’s not them, it’s me, and etc. Cat kisses my cheek and forehead before following the others out of the room. 

With the others gone, Gannon sits down by the side of the bed. I look over at him, frowning when I see the ugly bruising that mottles the right side of his face, the shiny puff of distended flesh that overtakes his eye, the butterfly bandages over his right brow. 

“You okay, partner?” I query. 

“No small thanks to you, man,” Gannon says, reaching over and covering my hand with his. “You saved my life. How’re _you_ feeling?” 

“Good,” I whisper. God, I’m getting tired. I just hope I can make it through this Q and A. “Really sleepy.” 

“Yeah, I’m betting they’ve got you on some pretty strong stuff,” Gannon chuckles, although there’s a wet quality to his voice that makes me suspect he’s been crying. 

I hate it when I get hurt like this. I feel like such a jerk, seeing how I’ve made everyone around me worry. One might think I’d be satisfied to know that I have people who love and care about me, but I’d rather not be reminded of that because I caused undue distress to my loved ones. Maybe I should just get a nice, safe, doldrummy network security job somewhere after this, I think, except then I’ll probably just throw everyone into another tizzy when I die of boredom. 

I notice Gannon as he checks out my pain drip. 

“Hydromorphone…” he observes, and grins at me. “Jeez, they really did save you the good stuff.” 

“Cool,” I whisper, grinning back. 

“Not cool, ya moron,” he says with a laugh. “You oughtta _suffer_ for this — I mean, what the hell, man? ‘Check out the trademark Shady Dude,’ Dickie says. ‘It’ll be fun,’ Dickie says. Now look where we are.” 

“Oh, come on,” I say, my voice barely whistling through my lips in a wisp of air by now. Even with the pain pump, my stomach feels as though it’s been swollen to a turgid, stiff balloon, and I’m exhausted from attempting speech through the injury’s stranglehold around my middle. Do you know how much you actually use your stomach to talk? Trust me, it’s lot more than you might realize. “It was more fun than picking up warrant dodgers, anyway. Finally got to put that academy combat training to good use.” 

He eyes me with something like awe for a moment, briefly silent in the beeping hum of the hospital room. 

“Speaking of that, dude… I’ve never seen _anything_ like you back there,” he tells me, shaking his head. 

I frown. “What do you mean?” 

“You were like a fucking _pit bull,_ Dickie,” he says. “Where’d you learn to fight like that? Because I _know_ they didn’t teach that shit in the academy.” 

…Crap. 

“Uh… my dad,” I say, not entirely a lie. “Alfred the ex-military guy. Jason the scrappy street kid.” 

“Jason. Figures,” he laughs, then sobers all at once. He surprises me when he grasps my hand, and this time, keeps my fingers in his hold. “…You scared the hell out of me. I thought you were a goner, Dick.” 

“Sorry, man,” I say, and squeeze his fingers. 

“Yeah, don’t do that again,” he says, levity restored. “I’ve got the right amount of detachment for this job, but… Well. I’ve gotten pretty fond of you, kid.” 

I smile, and again, squeeze his hand. “Likewise, partner.” I take a breath, and fight to keep my eyes open. “So… what’s the deal with Blockbuster?” 

“Well, he’s in max for the time being — but don’t hold your breath, apparently his mother is fixing to post his enormous bail come Monday.” He rolls his eyes. “Dickie, riddle me this, because I don’t get it. How does a twisted freak like Roland Desmond win the mommy lottery, when I can’t stand being around my Gestapo Hausfrau for longer than an hour and you, god-tier cinnamon roll extraordinaire, lose yours? I swear to God I quit believing in karma a century ago. And how the hell did _Blockbuster_ even have bail set for him?” He shakes his head. “He should be held without it until Judgment Day and trumpets’ sound.” 

I snort, regretting it when my abdomen tightens in protest, and nod my agreement. 

“Anyway,” Gannon continues, “I can’t even _tell_ you the laundry list of shit they found at Elbows. Your buddy Bangar’s in a boat load of trouble, on that note. Which… actually kind of sucks, since he’s really not that bad a guy… well, minus the drug peddling and turning a blind eye to malfeasance and hanging out with shitheads like Blockbuster, anyway. But I guess we dropped in on a really high-level info extract and hit over some serious big level controlled substances. The rings involved in this particular drug war go all the way black to the Black Mask over in Gotham, apparently.” 

“Really?” 

“Kid you not. From what we hear, he’s been trying to extend his influence down here, and Blockbuster doesn’t particularly like him stepping on his turf. The hit was actually on one of the Mask’s guys. We came in at a seriously bad-good time, in short… hence, Desmond wanted us dead from the get-go and Bangar tried getting us to leave. You know, that trademark Shady Dude that tipped us off in the first place is going to need to grow eyes in the back of his head, since if he wasn’t loitering around like an overt deviant in broad daylight in front of the club, we’d never have cased the joint in the first place.” 

I nod in concurrence. “Got lucky.” 

He shrugs. “Or that kid got stupid. Or high. And I guess the endgame for _us_ was to get bludgeoned or stabbed to death and thrown in the river along with the cruiser.” He shudders. “Creepy thinking about where we might have wound up if you didn’t unleash your inner Batman on Desmond.” 

I give him a half-smile. “Come on, man,” I murmur. “At least say I unleashed my inner Nightwing.” 

(Ha, ha.) 

He laughs. “Fine, your inner Nightwing. We _are_ in Blüdhaven. Anyway, Bangar’s in the pen, Blockbuster’s locked up for now, all his goons were taken in — it was actually a pretty successful bust, Dickie.” He sighs. “Just sorry you had to get thrown under the bus to see it done.” 

I shake my head, by now fuzzing in and out, appeased somewhat by this status update. My eyes keep falling shut no matter how hard I try to keep them open. 

“You’ll have to come in and give a statement at some point,” Gannon says, “and you may have to make an appearance in court when the time comes, but let’s not worry about that for right now. You should probably just get some rest — you’ve got a ways to go before you can even leave the hospital, let alone deal with all the other logistics and crap.” 

I make an “mmph” noise in response, the best I can manage. 

He chuckles, and pats my hand. 

“I’ll send Cat in,” he murmurs. “Rest up and get better, partner.” 

I’m asleep before the last word leaves his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No bueno: Not good  
> Bienvenido de nuevo, mi querido: Welcome back, my darling  
> Hola princesa: Hey, princess  
> Como te sientes, carino: How are you feeling, babe  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Culo: Ass  
> Hijo de puta el cabron: Son of a bitch bastard  
> Tu idiota: You idiot (m, f)  
> No esta bien: It's not okay  
> Querido: Darling, dear (romantic)  
> Por supuesto, hermoso: Of course, handsome  
> Claro: Sure  
> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Mama Osa: Mama Bear  
> Basta: Quit, stop, enough  
> Si, mi amor. Lo prometo: Yes, my love. I promise


	15. Wrench in the Gears

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya, everyone! <3
> 
> Hope all's well. <3 This chapter was probably written in the most disjointed manner ever, it took some ironing out and a bit of research, ha ha. MOST IMPORTANTLY it led to me realizing I'd forgotten to tie up a couple of earlier plot threads. XD I have too much material as always... *write tight, E* XD It actually caused me to go back to Chapter 14 and insert a minor edit regarding the detective's exam. MY BAD. <3 So no one has to go back and read it, Dick is a candidate for the promotion and will be taking his exam (physical, written, and oral) at the end of March in this timeline. And yes, he frets about his recovery length, but figures he'll be just squeaking out of it in time to undergo the physical (and he's Nightwing. He can manage even after x amount of forcible rest and injury. THE HELL WITH REALISM, HA HA.) XD
> 
> Dr. Skagle is TOTALLY supposed to be something of a crossover cameo homage to Tanya Skagle from Hung (and hence the show is referenced here.) XD
> 
> The story referred to is Joe R. Lansdale's The Fat Man, which can be found in Bruce Coville's anthology "Book of Nightmares." :D Still love those books to this day. The author's note I *think* detailed it as sick... but I also kind of think it might have been the note before Timor and the Furnace Troll in Book of Monsters?? I can't remember and my daughter HAS BOTH OF MY COPIES IN HER DESK AT SCHOOOOOOL. XD
> 
> You know, Cat's done a lot of sketchy, reprehensible shit... what she pulls in this chapter might be among some of the worst shenanigans she's gotten up to, now I think on it. XD From here on, though, is when she goes from tragic antihero to full-on villain, though... :D Enjoy, y'all! <3 Happy reading!!
> 
> As always, Spanish to English in the end note. :D
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 15**

Six. Weeks. Of pelvic rest. 

Six _weeks,_ Dick. 

Are you _kidding_ me? It might as well be six months. _Mierda!_

The absolute shock and nauseating horror of what happened to you was insufferable enough. I don’t think I have ever been more terrified in all my life than I was sitting in that dingy waiting room in RABE, waiting to hear word, news, _anything_ at all. If you died, I vowed I would take down Roland Desmond with my own two hands, and then turn those hands on myself if I turned out not to be _enceinte._ All reason to live would just go _poof_ into dust along with you if you ever left me to ride with the ferryman to that next place, and you left me no legacy, no memory. I sat pouring silent tears, scrubbing my leaking nose with tissues every so often, gripping the Kleenex in shaking hands, shredding it, starting in on another. The tears didn’t let up even for a second. 

Gannon, who sat next to me, looking like a complete and total wreck — physical and emotional — with his bruised face and distraught features, eventually laid a hand on my folded knee, and gave me a little pat. I grabbed at his hand, and gripped it even while I fidgeted endlessly with the tissue in the other and cried. 

“It’ll be okay,” he told me more than once. “He’ll be fine, Cat. Dick’s young. He’s a fighter.” 

I only cried more each time he said that, sounding as though he tried harder to convince himself than to convince me. All I could see was John, gazing at me from where he lay sprawled and twisted atop the asphalt of the lot, the comprehension dimming in his eyes as the life bled from their blue surfaces. I had grasped his hand wetly in my bloody grip, begging him with no voice to stay with me, to hold onto me, for the love of god not to leave me, to _just hold on._ Soundlessly, I sent the same words your way, thinking them over and over, begging you not to leave me, knowing as time went on that if the doctor came out and announced that you had died, my heart would give out and I would join you, vengeance met or not, baby or not. 

Alfred kindly supplied me with water and more tissues. Bruce remained stoic and silent, his posture stiff and tense, his whole demeanor as distant, flat, and uninviting as a lake at night. Only Alfred reached over to him, touched him. Jason, his own face etched with a determined, hard-edged frown, was the first to truly break the silence. 

“He’s just got test anxiety about the detective’s exam in March,” he announced. “And you know Dickiebird, he’s a drama queen. Of course he’d pull a stunt like this to try bypassing it.” 

There were a few half-hearted chuckles. We all knew you could be blitzed on LSD and asleep on your feet and still pass every portion of that exam. 

I think I speak for everyone when we soundlessly prayed that you would not only be well enough, but _alive_ to complete all portions of the exam come the end of March. 

Jason then produced a book from his backpack and read aloud from its pages, fighting to keep our minds occupied. His, too, I knew. All joking aside, I could see that he was every bit as fraught as the rest of us as he read from _Woman Hollering Creek. Dios lo bendiga y lo proteja._ The tears didn’t stop, but the hours that crawled by like never-ending life ages of the earth at least shifted into a less gummy gear. 

Then, and _finally_ — the overpowering wash of relief that made the fabled fainting couch suddenly seem like it ought to make a comeback when the doctor on duty entered the waiting room… and told us that you were _going to pull through._

The fear and despair that had drowned me so mercilessly for the hours preceding at last shedded itself slow and stuttering, like a grimy snakeskin, when she informed us that while you were “banged up pretty good and turned effectively into a human kebab,” you also “did great in surgery and proved yourself a real tough cookie.” I liked her immediately — she was short and mousy, just a sweet, artsy white lady you might expect to be some esoteric college professor at a liberal arts school rather than a doctor. She was also lighthearted with a good sense of humor, traits you mentioned were imperative just to _survive_ work at RABE. Dr. Skagle knew you prior to your patient status, she later told me, since your own work frequently brought you into her territory while you assisted on investigations or took statements from the likes of injured witnesses, victims of violent crime, accident survivors, and so on. She projected that you’d put in a fine recovery with proper care and rest, and told me that there shouldn’t be any need to worry, barring the risk of infection. Then, she announced, it was time for her to go home for the day, but not to hesitate to call with any questions if the doctor who replaced her left anything unclear. She handed me her card, and I let out the breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding through the tears — only exhaling and inhaling every so often — and dissolved into _more_ tears, these ones those of utter relief, to hear the news. I only disseminated more when you came to, and all of the emotions snowballed and exploded out of me in a big, drawn-out burst. 

It took a while, but after some hours, as I sat beside you after Gannon left your bedside, watching you as you heavily, peacefully slept under the lull of the hydromorphone, reality came crashing in — the fuzz busting a hopping, illegal party. 

Not merely rest. Not merely bedrest. But six weeks of _pelvic rest,_ the doctor said to me — _six weeks._

If I ever see Blockbuster again — I swear on my parents’ graves that the first thing I’ll take from him is his revolting dick, which I will use to _stab_ and _choke_ him with. Slowly and _painfully._ God damn that _hijo de puta_ straight to hell. Not only did he hurt you, nearly kill you, make you suffer — but to say this throws a wrench in every gear I have turning? That I labored and lied and maneuvered to _start_ turning? It doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it. 

But there’s nothing to be done for it, I know with furious regret, as I help you from the car into the house. Not only are you on pelvic rest for the next five weeks (you were in the hospital for a full week and some change, _chulo),_ but total bedrest for the next. And although I have a good feeling about things, I remain reduced now to praying to a God I barely believe in anymore and lighting daily candles that I am going to _dar a luz en serio._

Still. I can’t deny or ignore that this unfortunate iatrogenic misery is _so_ necessary, _pobrecito._ You are slow, sweating, taking painstaking care to navigate the steps from the garage into the entryway. I help you up, allowing you to lean most of your weight on my arm with each step. You’ll need your Oxycodone the second you’re settled. 

“Sorry,” you huff when the door shuts, your balance precarious by your standards, your hand gripping mine in an effort to remain upright, the material of your hooded sweatshirt quickly dampening. 

“It’s okay, _mi amor,”_ I murmur to you, coming to you and nudging my shoulder under your arm. “Just lean on me. I’m here.” 

You do, although I can sense you trying to walk as much as possible on your own, always determined to be self-sufficient. It’s an admirable trait, _querido,_ but not in this case. You’ll end up faceplanting in your determination and just hurt yourself worse. 

When the time is right, I have every intention of discussing a career change with you. I simply can’t bear to see you go through this horror show more than once, and I definitely can’t live with the fear of something like this happening again. I know you love your job, but you have a million and one other _safer_ passions and talents. You don’t truly _need_ police work. 

I help you through the foyer to the living room, thinking that I need to get you to sleep. It shouldn’t be a hard task, but every second that passes is a flash of impatience. There is something I need _so much_ to do — and I can’t do it while you’re awake. 

You laboriously pull your sweat-soaked hoodie over your head and lie down gingerly on the couch, thanking me for my help, your lips set in a thin line. You have a high pain tolerance, I think, as I ready a glass of water and pop the tablet from the bottle. I was in a much grumpier, surlier mood just from the discomfort alone when I was shot. Of course, you are a Batkid, a vigilante — a high threshold is a bare minimum prerequisite. 

You swallow the pill and sift through the Prime video menu, settling on _Flight of the Conchords._

“Probably not the most well-advised idea,” you mumble, your voice weak and wispy, “because I _really_ don’t need to be laughing right now.” You shuffle into the couch cushions with a grimace. 

“Laughter’s good for you, _precioso,”_ I tell you, and kiss your forehead. “It’ll help you get better faster.” 

“True. But not when your stomach,” you indicate your wound site, and make open and shut motions, _“talks_ to people.” 

I smile. “You’re kind of like that creepy monster from the story in Bruce Coville’s _Book of Nightmares._ The one with the _tipo_ who had the big mouth in his stomach. Did you ever read that book or story?” 

You smile at me, and shake your head. “Sounds scintillating.” 

I excitedly pat your leg, tell you I’ll be right back, and race upstairs. I _loved_ this collection of stories when I was young. 

I turn the TV down when I return, and spend some time with your legs stretched across my lap, cuddled under a blanket, while I read to you from the story in question. Your eyes are closed by the time I’m finished; however, you aren’t quite sleeping. 

You chuckle a little, not opening your eyes. When you speak, your voice is barely more than a hum. “Damn. That story was just plain sick.” 

I laugh. “You know, that’s exactly what the author’s note says at the beginning?” 

“And that’s a book for kids… It’s gonna haunt my twenty-five-year-old dreams,” you murmur, still smiling. 

I reach over, and stroke your gorgeous hair. “Speaking of dreams. Why don’t you get some rest, _cariño?”_

You “mmph” a little, and not even a second following, your breathing evens and your form slumps more. 

_Perfecto._

I snake out from under you, careful not to alert you or cause you pain, and again, rush upstairs. 

Time to confirm what I am confident that I know — and quit lighting candles. 

The pregnancy tests are under the sink, in plain sight. I consider them a moment, a little thrill pulsing through me. I have my cover story prepared, my excuses formulated for the baby being a little less along than anticipated — that being I forgot my cycle dates in specific, whoops. It can happen to any girl, really. I surely will not have been the first. 

Still, my bodily plus one status is not confirmed — with you in the hospital, and between visiting hours and fretting and transforming the house into a convalescent home, I haven’t had the time to worry about such details as scientific confirmation. 

I just haven’t sensed an immediate urgency to take home pregnancy test, because I already have a very good feeling. See, _guapo —_ it _has_ to be the case. I’m never late, never — and I’m a week behind my regularly scheduled programming. The six weeks of pelvic rest really only removed an insurance policy of sorts, something that would provide me peace of mind and increased security. 

I’m going to have your baby. I am. I’m _sure_ of it. 

Now, just to have it clinched, solidified — and we can _finally_ move forward. Doctor’s appointments, ultrasounds, shopping, the whole nine yards. 

I peel the wrapping off the stick with hands that shake with anticipation, tearing at the foil, internally screaming with equal parts hope and joy. 

I snicker a bit immaturely. Peeing on a stick — such a visceral, unromantic prefix to what is (for some women, anyway) the most romantic moment in their whole, entire lives. And I know for me, this will be. And better and more romantic yet, after this, once you’ve healed, we can just _make love_ — and delight in one another, without the ubiquitous lurking shadow of an unspoken, underlying purpose. 

I rest the test on the counter by the sink, and I busy myself, waiting for its two lines to appear, straightening the hanging towel and shower curtain. 

I glance at it after a moment, and freeze. 

_“¿Qué chingados?”_ I hiss, a lance of sick, shivery fury going through my gut and chest. 

One line. 

One. 

Negative. 

I stare stupidly at it for a moment, tilting my head, nudging it, blinking, squinting — as though it might change at any second, or I might simply be looking at it wrong. Well, it doesn’t change, and I don’t seem to be looking at it from a confused angle. There is one line, one definite line — and not even the ghost of a second. 

_Las mamadas._ It has to be a mistake, an error in the test. It’s not unheard of — it _has_ to be faulty. 

I pound a few glasses of water and take another test, by now certain the first one is wrong, that I didn’t take it properly. 

This one is negative, too. 

I curse, and thump it against the counter. 

I drink more water, and reread the directions. Then I take the third, the last one in the box. My hands shake now with apprehension. 

_Y…_

_Nada._

This one is just as negative as the last two. 

I curse in restrained snarls, struggling against the blasting heat of my ire and terror, barely containing the threatening despair that presses at my gullet, knowing I can’t wake you and bring you up here querying after why I’m so distraught. But that knowledge doesn’t stop me from hurling the wrappings and empty box, or from continuing to spew a stream of strangled swear words in alternating Spanish and English. 

I shoot upright. These unreliable bogus tools can’t be trusted. They’re _wrong._ Dead wrong. I’m never late, _nunca._ Not even by a day. I storm downstairs, hike my shoes and coat on, and leave you a note before I get in the car and back out of the driveway. 

I’ll be back with your favored comfort foods, my cover for vanishing on you and leaving you alone when you really ought to be babysat. But I shouldn’t be gone long — I still have cash from working with Blockbuster (the _hijo de puta,_ at least he was good for one thing, and the job I did for him on those stupid _gabachos_ that I dumped in the river near the Gotham estuary back in the fall turned over enough money to last me a good while. Planting evidence that would posthumously implicate Redhorn in the deaths of these waste-aways got me a sizable bonus, too.) With it, I’ll make this errand go by much faster. 

I refuse to use the money of yours that you’ve given me access to in order to accomplish this. Not only would you potentially be able to trace it — which would lead to questions I _could_ formulate answers to but would rather not — but such a thing feels wrong, twisted, bent. 

And sure enough, the woman at Planned Parenthood is happy to jump me to the front of the queue when I subtly slip her a fat wad of big, folded bills. I’m called back, and the NP, when I give her a bit of cash, as well, sends me to another room to have my blood drawn — for _a blood test,_ just like I asked for — in less than twenty minutes. _Perfecto._ In the Blüd, money _always_ talks, no matter what the line of work. It’s hard for _anyone_ in this city to eke out a living. No wonder the competing mobs have such strangleholds over this godforsaken pit — _they_ are where the money is. Even the upstanding jobs that should theoretically be lucrative pay dick. 

The NP informs me that I should have the results in a few days. I give her another sizeable wad of money — the rest of my Blockbuster earnings, _vaya_ — to ensure that I get the results tomorrow, Tuesday, by the afternoon. She promises me that I will, barely hiding her gratitude for the extra cash, and surreptitiously pockets the money. 

I leave the clinic, and vibrating with tension and nerves, distracted and introspective, I pick up your favored sick foods — veggie pho and a vanilla milkshake. You are still sleeping when I return home. You smile when I wake you to give you your goodies. The expression is a spear in my heart. 

God, _querido._

What will I do if those tests I took _weren’t_ wrong? A blood test is exceptionally unlikely to produce a false negative, unlike the pee sticks. So if the clinic calls with bad news, there’s little room for hope beyond that. 

What will I _do?_ What will I _tell_ you? How will I salvage this, resolve it, if the worst occurs? I can explain away a few weeks of discrepancy, but a few months — or worse, several? 

I’m _sure_ that the HPTs were wrong, but the doubt chews at my mind, anyway, tormenting me, leaving me lost and floundering as I wait for tomorrow to come. 

I muster the best I can, and sift through my own pho as we marathon _American Horror Story,_ a selection that’s more considerate of your injured middle. You study for your detective’s exam off and on as concentration levels allow, and have me quiz you periodically (you chuckle a bit when I tell you that you’ve got this in the bag, and I really don’t know why you’re bothering to study.) You text Gannon, email Alfred and Bruce, bullshit via a short FaceTime with Jason and Tim (who’s returned from his off-world mission.) You check on the status of the cyber world here and there. Finally, you drift off again after a time, with your head resting in my lap. 

I stare at the television, not really seeing or hearing what I watch, idly stroking your gorgeous hair to keep my hands occupied. I sweat as I think obsessively on the results I wait for, pinballing between the certainty that they’ll give me the positive I seek, and the sickening, panic-inducing doubt. 

The day crawls by every bit as slowly as the hours in the waiting room. The only thing to distract my mind is _AHS_ (thankfully, the show abounds in seasons.) When the afternoon dwindles into evening, the darkness overtaking the sky outside, I realize I _have_ to occupy myself beyond mindless TV watching, or I'll go nuts. I wake you, heat your leftover pho, and homemake you a vanilla shake for dinner to get busy. You thank me profusely, insisting that I don’t need to fuss over you so much. 

“This ain’t my first rodeo, Cat,” you murmur, sitting up and accepting the shake, your features lighting up adorably. “Honestly, you’ve done too much already — at least tomorrow I think I’ll be able to get up and start getting my own stuff.” You smile at me. “Give you a much needed break.” 

“You’ll do no such thing,” I chide you. “You’re on total bedrest. That means you get up to sit on the toilet — and that’s it. You still have a week of this, you know. And partial bedrest afterward.” 

You chuckle. “Sounds lovely. But okay, you win, Nurse Cat.” 

I help you shower when you finish your shake (which went down a good deal easier than the pho did, I notice. You and that sugar habit I swear you’ll never kick.) I fastidiously change the dressing atop your sutures and assist you as you pull a shirt over your head, the task protracted. One pain pill later, and you are tucked into bed, out for the count, your face turned into the pillow. 

For my part, I don’t sleep. I lie restless in the darkness beside you, staring up at the ceiling, slumber somewhere on the dark side of the moon and well out of reach. 

In the morning, I slap my cheeks, take a breath to quell my rattling nerves, and fix you oatmeal with honey and coffee when you’re ready to come down. You thank me, and gently draw me to you to drop a kiss on my cheek. You tell me that I’m the best and you don’t deserve me. 

My gut turns, stirred with a paddle. But I smile, and wave a hand. 

“It’s why I’m here, _cariño,”_ I murmur to you, and kiss your lips. Dry, clammy, sweat beading the upper. You poor thing. I get you a glass of water and ensure you’re comfortable on the couch. You protest, insisting that you _still_ feel wrong allowing me to wait on you like this, that it stands to reason you should at least be able to get me things I need if you can hobble to the restroom to pee. 

You’ve done so much more for me, I tell you gently, and it’s high time I returned the favor. Then I tell you to shut up and rest or I’m calling Bruce — from where I sit on you. 

That gets you. You laugh, cringe, and acquiesce. 

We spend some time playing on Jaime’s old NES that I never got rid of. _Life Force_ — so much easier with the Konami Code, we agree, and under the ease that your company always instills in me and the mindless occupation of the game, I am able to wait with some tolerable level of patience for the phone call from the clinic. 

Finally, just after two, as you lie asleep where you drifted off with the controller still in your hand, my phone goes off. I quietly answer, and sneak upstairs to my bedroom. 

_This is it,_ I think, quavering as I wait for the nurse practitioner from yesterday on the other end to finish her spiel. _This is it, Catalina._

I hold my breath, listening for those words I long and wait for. 

And then — 

My stomach falls out of me in a gush and my heart goes with it when I’m informed that no, I am not pregnant. 

The words are shattering. 

_Not pregnant._

And false negatives are _exceptionally_ uncommon in blood tests. There’s very little room for doubt. 

_Not pregnant._

“Why am I late, then?” I beseech the NP, seconds from tears. 

“Anything can delay your cycle,” she tells me gently. “Exercise, shifts in diet, changes in routine, stress, trauma, so on.” 

And with that, the tears come, falling unchecked and hard over my cheeks, spilling onto the quilt. 

Damn it. 

It all checks out. It does. Those hours that you were in surgery, while I waited for you to die, were undeniably traumatic. The week following, while you tottered on the edges of infection and complication in the hospital, was unthinkably stressful. And then came the subtextual stress of exposure — a total nightmare. There’s also the fact that over the last week, I’ve barely eaten, and slept even less. When I wasn’t at the hospital, I was venting the strain on long runs, forgetting to eat, unable to rest. Even if I _was_ pregnant, I’d have been guilty of taking piss-poor care of myself, at the very least. 

Of course I’m late. _Claro._ Of course. 

Dick. God. This is the worst heartbreak that I can imagine — just the absolute worst, worse even than anything I’ve experienced before. All that I _ever wanted_ culminated in this would-be moment, the moment that would dissolve all of my suffering and despair, define all of my reason for living, cement our happiness and life together. 

I didn’t want a baby just to maintain the ruse that would keep you by my side. No, _mi amor._ The need for the lie merely jump-started what I so desperately longed for already. Dick, I wanted — _want_ — a baby more than anything in this world. But after John, after our child, I never thought I would have one. The pain was just too great. 

And then _you_ came to my window on that rainy Wednesday — and I could already feel that little life inside of me, kindling my spirit and vivifying my desires. I want so much to have _your_ baby. Yours. Not _a_ baby. _Yours._

I want it _so bad._

And now I sit in my unlit room, and sob into my palm. I had hoped. Wished. Prayed. Fought. 

And it’s all crumbled between my fingers under those terrible words. 

_Not pregnant._

I sob harder as the NP on the line tries to comfort me. I shakily tell her thank you, and hang up. 

She has no idea. None. 

What is there now, _cariño?_ There is no _trying again_ — not in this. This was a one-shot-or-you’re-out from the very beginning. I had one try — and that one try failed. 

Now what? What can I do? What is left to me? 

I lie back, and just sob. I sob myself dry, sick, weak. I sob until the tank is empty, and I turn to my side, completely spent, and just lie there with my knees curled to my chest and my hands tangled in my hair. 

Because what am I going to do now? _What am I going to do?_

Looking outside, the light has canted into the dimness of the late afternoon. I haven’t heard from you downstairs — I should check on you. I should have checked on you some time ago. 

I sit up, and breathe in. 

I know that I can’t make myself pregnant, _cariño._ All I can do is work with what I have, and do what must be done. And right now, you need me to care for you while you recover from your grievous injury. Help you study. Love you. Support you. Protect you. Believe in you. 

I pull myself together. You need me. And I _have_ to salvage this. Have to. 

This will be a reality someday. It will. _It must be._ You have been so thrilled, Dick, so excited about this baby. And I _want_ to carry your children. I cannot allow a stupid setback to take this joy from us. That would be _wrong,_ unforgivably wrong. I must make it a reality, whatever it takes. 

And if I’m going to see it become a reality, I can’t sob myself sick like this, folding and giving up, caving under the pressure of but one house of cards falling to pieces. 

After all, you are alive. You are living in my house. You are _mi novio._ And you love me. _You love me._

And _you are alive._ A week ago, I thought I had lost you. 

So all is not lost. It isn’t, _precioso._ And now, I just need to be clever, thoughtful, smart. 

I take another breath, and dry my cheeks. I steel myself, seeing one bright, perfect way out of this, and make my decision, even as the remorse twists in my churning gut. 

Oh, _querido._ This will hurt you. It will hurt you so badly. All you’ve been able to talk about since Christmas is this now tragically, painfully hypothetical baby. You’re nesting already, saving your money, stockpiling it into a separate account for this child, you’ve valiantly gone to war with your resistant health insurance company for my sake, your Amazon history involves every baby-related necessity under the sun. It’s been so sweet, so heartwarming — but now, utterly heart-rending. 

I’m so sorry, _mi amor._ I’m so, so, so sorry. But if we are going to keep this joy, if I am not to lose you, if you are going to remain with me, where you belong, loved and cared for and appreciated and wanted — I will have to break your heart first. 

_Lo siento._ I have to. 

But I promise I will repair it, _cariño._ I promise I will heal your broken heart, _fix_ this someday. _Lo prometo._

I know what to do. 

xxxxx 

It comes a week later with its usual cramps and bloating and fatigue, the call for Big Belly fries, the irrational whiplash between emotions. My back twinges, my stomach clamps down on itself under the vice of an unseen fist. And I bleed. 

Oh, do I _ever_ bleed. 

The delay has caused my monthly cycle to return with a punishing vengeance, wrecking everything I come into contact with, pulverizing my abdominals. 

I take a breath, release it. 

You are still on partial bedrest. Your Oxycodone prescription has not run out and you are still to take it every six hours as symptoms persist (and they do.) You are under Dr. Skagle’s orders not to drive. This scenario, _gracias a Dios,_ is all but perfect. I know just how to approach this, how to play it out, make it seem _real._ Undeniably real. And in a way that will forever hide from you the truth — the truth that is as terrible as the lie. 

I can do this. And I must. Even if it will _kill_ me to see what this does to you, I _must_ do this. 

Showtime. 

I leave the bathroom, and enter the living room, where you rest on the couch, looking heartbreakingly adorable as you marathon the seasons of the sadly short-lived _Hung._ You smile as I approach, the expression fading abruptly when you see me, doubtless visibly sweaty and disheveled and pale. 

The distress in me is not fake, _querido._ This is going to hurt you so much. And it kills me inside to hurt you — even if it’s necessary. 

“You okay, babe?” you ask, sitting up. 

I gaze at you, tears springing into my eyes. Real ones. 

“Dick,” I murmur, a tremor that is every bit as real in my voice. “…Please call Mat.” 

You nod, frowning now in concern, and reach for your phone. “Okay.” You pause, and the alarm rises in your eyes as you study me. “Cat, what’s going on?” 

The tears fall over my cheeks, and when I speak, I set the train in motion. 

“…I think I’m miscarrying.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mierda: Shit  
> Enceinte: Pregnant  
> Dios lo bendiga and y lo proteja: God bless and protect him  
> Hijo de puta: Son of a bitch  
> Chulo: Cutie (not pimp in this usage)  
> Dar a luz en serio: Have a baby/give birth for real (literally “give a light”)  
> Pobrecito: Poor baby  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Querido: Darling/dear (romantic)  
> Precioso: Precious, cutie  
> Tipo: Dude  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Perfecto: Perfect  
> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Que chingados: What the fuck  
> Las mamadas: Bullshit  
> Y… Nada: And… Nothing  
> Nunca: Never  
> Vaya: Man (like “Oh, man”)  
> Claro: Of course, sure  
> Mi novio: My boyfriend  
> Lo siento: I’m sorry  
> Lo prometo: I promise  
> Gracias a Dios: Thank God


	16. Caja de Pandora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHAT'S POPPIN' Y'ALL... <3
> 
> Hope all's well! <3 ^_^
> 
> Thanks to my brother and dad, the lawyer and doctor, who walked me through a lot of the material within this chapter. And special thanks to my long-suffering BFF for being her awesome self! ^_^ <3
> 
> Spanish to English in the end note!
> 
> Happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 16**

Gut injury be damned. Catalina floating like a ghost into the living room and delivering those awful, awful words — _I think I’m miscarrying — I’m bleeding_ — bolts an electric shock through my system, jolting me off the couch and straight to the foyer to grab the keys to her car. I give her wrist a light tug as I pass her with a murmured, “Come on.” 

“Dick, what are you doing —” she demands, following me into the foyer, her face damp and eyes streaming. 

I thrust her coat at her. 

“I’m taking you to the hospital,” I proclaim. “Now.” 

She gestures. 

“ _You —_ are not taking me anywhere,” she announces. “You are going to call Mat, or _I_ am going to call Mat, and _he_ is going to take me. You aren’t permitted to _drive,_ Dick. Half your guts were falling out just a few weeks ago, for God’s sake —” 

“Cat,” I insist, looking at her, the frantic pulses of fear and desperation rushing through me, “it’s Monday. Mat has court. He’s swamped. You and I both know it. And if there’s one thing Bats ensured, it’s that I can drive drunk, high, injured — any of it. Come on. We’re going.” 

“Dick, no,” she says, and plants her feet. “No.” 

I draw up short, one of my Converse in hand, and stare at her, completely flummoxed by what I’m hearing. “What do you _mean,_ no? Cat — you _need_ to go to the hospital —” 

“For _what?”_ she shouts, her slight accent thickening as she raises her voice, the sound echoing throughout the confines of the old foyer. “For them just to pull my blood and stick me with an IV and tell me what I already know? If I’m losing this baby, that disgusting D and C won’t be scheduled for some time yet, just FYI! You’re _not_ going to risk everything driving us there just for all that shit — I’m calling my brother —” 

She has the phone in her hand, and I don’t begrudge her at all calling Mat in this moment, but even if he can make himself available, I am _not_ sitting at home by myself, apart from her, while she lands in the hospital and goes through this hell on earth. I _need_ to be there. I can’t support her cooling my heels miles away on the couch — and likewise. 

“I’m not risking anything — I promise, if I was even remotely uncomfortable driving or had a single doubt, I wouldn’t be doing this,” I insist, gesticulating wildly. “Catalina, this isn’t a matter of feeling like you already know what’s going to happen so why bother, or even of worrying about getting there in the first place. _You need to go._ And I’m _not_ sitting around here twiddling my thumbs like a chump and leaving you to go through this by yourself —” 

“I won’t be by myself,” she snaps, the phone to her ear. “Mat will be there.” There is a pause, and then she thrusts the phone away from her ear. “He’s not answering. _Hjio de puta.”_

“Well, then, that clinches it. We’re going, Cat. Come on.” 

She eyes me, and punches a command on her phone. She presses it to her ear. After a moment, she hurls it away with a curse. 

“Fine, then, if you want to be an idiot. But I’m driving,” she states, crossing her arms, her chin shivering. 

“Like hell,” I hiss, by now impatient. “You’re _not_ driving right now.” 

“Well, neither are you.” 

“Cat —” Again, I gesticulate, “why are we even arguing about this? I haven’t had a pain pill all day, I’m not in so much pain I can’t function — I am perfectly capable of driving. And like I said, I can drive blitzed, anyway. And the longer we stand here talking, the more we risk our baby. Let’s go.” 

I grit my teeth as I hike my shoes on, the motion a blazing spear in my sutured wound, the physical reminder that I’m overdue for some meds. Nothing to be done for it, though — I’m out the door, punching the button for the garage door, and striding with an annoying, pain-induced limp to Cat’s Civic. I realize she isn’t following me. I turn, about to put my foot so far down it’ll go through the floor. 

She stands fast at the door, stony and silent, her jaw set, the tears falling. 

I deflate. God, I’m being _such_ an asshole. The fear’s taken the wheel and I’m lashing out, venting the burgeoning terror and anxiety however I can, before I _completely_ blow up. Bruce, Alfred, Babs, _all_ of them would have a field day if they caught me acting like this. 

And whatever I’m feeling — it can’t have a damn thing on what she’s going through right now. She’s lived the worst case of this hell once before. Going through it again is past unfathomable — she needs me to be _strong_ for her, not channel a melting down reactor. 

“Catalina,” I say, gentling, pulling myself somewhat together, “I’m sorry. I’m being a total jerk. I’m just worried and scared —” 

She scoffs. “Oh, _you’re_ scared.” 

I lift a conciliatory hand. “Well, I am — but that’s not the point. Look, I know how hard this is for you — but, _cariña,_ you _need_ to go to the hospital. You’re almost into your second trimester and if — if —” I falter, and gesture instead, “you _need_ to go to the ER. And listen, you’re not going to be alone. Not this time. I’m coming with you, okay? I’ll be right there with you the whole time. Promise.” 

There’s a torturesome pause as she stands unmoving. 

“I can’t convince you to stay here, can I,” she states flatly. 

“No,” I say. “You want to go to the hospital without me, you’ll have to knock me out and step over me first.” 

It’s an effort at levity, something to comfort her, but her eyes darken and her teeth visibly grind. Finally, she floats silently down the steps, with force nudges me (painfully) out of the way, and jerks the door to the passenger side of the car open to slide in. The door slams. 

I hurry to the driver’s seat, shivering, not worried about a coat. I can feel my own tears threatening, pushing at my eyes like itchy fingers as I start up the ignition. 

Cat doesn’t speak a word the entire drive to the hospital. Neither do I. Every stoplight is a jolt that pulls me briefly from the swirling pool of my discordant, half-formed thoughts, every halt, slow, or turn an irritating rupture in their trajectories. 

Dr. Skagle is on duty at the ER, and that, at least, is a relief that transcends words. We’re friendly work acquaintances at this point, since I often interact with hospital staff on the job, and I swear the poor woman lives at RABE. But she’s a good doctor — very competent, and genuinely kind. I know we’ll be in good hands. 

Finally settling into a triage room after admittance, we lapse again into silence. Catalina is unspeaking, her posture tense and huddled in the hospital bed, her hands folded around palmfuls of woven blanket. She focuses hard on some undetermined sight, her brows stitched and lips set. 

I reach over, and take one hand, giving her a reassuring look and squeezing her fingers. She glances at me, and laces her fingers in mine, then reclines in quiet. 

The waiting is the worst part. The horrible stretches of being consumed by the monsters of my thoughts, the interims spent hoping for news or some sign that something’s being _done_ , only to be passed by the thin ranks of staff at every interval. I hold Catalina’s hand with one of my mine, and worry mindlessly at a worn spot in my track pants with the other. 

There’s a part of me that hopes, that remains obstinately positive, certain that everything will turn out fine. Cat hasn’t been to see the OB yet, something of a battle that she and I have waged against one another since she first told me she was pregnant, so we have no way of knowing if there’s an underlying issue that might have caused a bleed without indicating the worst. A lot of things cause bleeding in pregnancy without meaning loss, I tell myself incessantly, blood does _not_ mean a miscarriage — it’s something like placenta previa, a placental tear, a low-lying placenta, any of those things I’d read about in the book I’d picked up. That’s all. It _has_ to be. Artemis had issues with bleeds due to, speaking of, a small placental tear that sentenced her to the horror of bed rest for the last seven weeks of her pregnancy. 

I hold my breath against the cry fest that threatens to burst the lump in my throat. I want to text her so badly — to reach out to my friend, listen to her own experience, absorb her words and comfort. Artemis has been a rock to me more times than I count — after Jason, after Wally, when Babs was injured. But I know what texting the person Cat’s gone to war with for God-knows-why will do, so I keep her experience and the possibility of reaching out to her to myself. 

It sucks. 

I just hold to the prayer that it’s nothing serious, or nothing that we can’t handle or that will harm the baby, while I sit by Catalina in the curtained-off alcove of the hospital room. I grasp her hand, my fingers tight, hers limp as a dead fish. 

Then I curse myself inwardly for folding, for trying at her and our baby’s expense to keep her happy, for attempting peace in the house. The subject of going to the OB has been _very_ sensitive — she hates doctors and clinics, she’s maintained, and women have been having babies since the dawn of time, so why the immediate need to go to the doctor? The whole process, which is a perfectly natural thing, is over-medicalized, she said, and wrongfully treated as a health condition. She finally met my gentle, carefully worded remonstrations in the middle by agreeing to go as soon as the insurance process was complete — but then I got impaled on a machete four days beforehand. If she made an appointment subsequently, she hasn’t told me about it. 

Damn it, I should have fought harder, argued more. Why didn’t I? If something’s wrong that could have been prevented — aren’t _I_ the one to blame, at the end of the day? I had a responsibility to my family to argue, to stand up, to _fight_ — even if it was a squicky topic, even when it rocked the boat and created stress between us. Jesus, what’s _happened_ to me? I would never have sat silently at any other time or with anyone else — why the hell didn’t I just speak up? 

It abruptly dawns on me with a nauseating stab that exaggerated or undue stress can do all sorts of weird things to the body in pregnancy — is _that_ what’s landed us here? Stress? I grit my teeth and fight with my gorge as I curse myself up, down, left, right and center for letting myself get hurt like I did, for being stupid and not thinking on my feet as well as I could have as I fought with Blockbuster in my cop garb. God, I’ve put _so much strain_ on Catalina over the last few weeks — what if the stress of my injury did this — 

I suck in a breath and hold it, pressing a hand to my painful laceration site. 

_Don’t think about that right now,_ I command myself sternly. _You can’t think about that right now. You_ can’t. 

I release a slow, uncomfortable sigh and keep one hand on the burning coil in my abdomen. I _have_ to believe this will turn out okay. I have to be _strong_ right now — Catalina needs me, and I can’t fold under my own self-condemnation and the hows of us landing here. There’s no choice. I can’t dwell on what I might have done differently. Not now. 

But in spite of my cleaving to the recalcitrant belief that everything will be fine, that Catalina isn’t miscarrying, that we _aren’t_ losing our baby, the undercurrent of desperate fear swims hard beneath the surface, twisting in nauseating eddies in my aching, painful guts, threatening to create a bilious upsurge all over the graying white tile of the floor. Every so often, tears spill over my lashes, unheeded as I focus hard on the counter in the far corner of the room. My breathing comes erratic, fevered, and weak. 

I pray — _really_ pray — for the first time since the night Barbara was shot. 

Catalina goes through a urinalysis, a pelvic exam, several vials of blood drawn, and finally an ultrasound that the tech doesn’t say much through. She just sits, clicking her mouse and focusing on the small, individual monitor, which is angled so I annoyingly can’t get the best look at it. Every question I ask, she snappishly tells me Dr. Skagle will be talking to us shortly in response. Something about the hunch of her shoulders unsettles me a little, but Catalina is gripping the hell out of my hand now, her palm gone sweaty and cold, so I stop questioning, and I don’t make an effort to rise and get a better look at the ultrasound, either. I let go a sigh, trying to calm myself a bit. 

It is what it is, I remind myself. RABE is underfunded and understaffed — it’s aggravating, but unsurprising that they have old, tiny, borderline defunct equipment and surly, hateful, reticent staff that aren’t people-persons. I know it from my own experience through the BPD, and I saw it firsthand after getting kebabbed — I was just lucky to have decently talented surgeons and doctors on duty during my stint. (Granted, I think that had a lot to do with the fact that no one wanted to run afoul of Bruce Wayne by mishandling the care of his eldest beneficiary. It’s even possible that they outsourced.) I clench my teeth and just try to overlook RABE’s shortcomings and concentrate on supporting Catalina and keeping my terror and waiting grief restrained. I don’t want to cause her more distress. She’s clearly a mess, barely keeping it together, her entire body quivering, her skin beaded with sweat. 

We wind up back in the curtained triage room. Again, neither of us speaks. I just stare down at the scuffed floor now, keeping Cat’s hand in mine. All the while, I inwardly beg God, angels, my spirit animal, _anyone_ who might care, for everything to be okay. It’s all I can do. 

I can’t help but find myself perilously poised at the edge of a real precipice at that thought, seconds from toppling over the edge and into the abyss of the emotions that wait for me, their hands reaching and questing like lost souls desperate for help. I grip Catalina’s hand out of my own distress now, my chest tightening, my gut wound lacing up into a knot of hot discomfort. There’s so much I can do, so much I’m capable of, so many privileges and resources right at my fingertips that aren’t available to so many others — and yet, I can’t stop this from happening, however I might try. 

Dr. Skagle comes in, and it’s all I can do not to leap out of my skin, grateful to be pulled back from the ledge by her presence. As she announces herself, Catalina jerkily tugs my hand. 

“ _Querido,”_ she says, “before we get into this, could you turn up some water for me?” 

I stand. “Yeah, sure —” 

Dr. Skagle waves a hand. 

“No, no, sit down, Dick,” she says, her normally soft demeanor a bit more stern than normal. “You’re supposed to be on partial bedrest, anyway — I just hope you didn’t drive yourself here.” She turns to Cat. “This will only take a second, Catalina.” 

I sit, inspired to obedience by her unusually firm decree, and Catalina turns to me — for the briefest second — with what I _swear_ is the look of a thousand deaths. It evaporates swiftly, but I don’t miss or mistake it. 

I squeeze her hand placatingly. 

“I’ll get your water in a second, _princesa,”_ I tell her. 

Dr. Skagle, for her part, is eyeing Catalina with an expression that seems somehow stern, almost disciplinary. An odd feeling turns in my gut — something apprehensive and bracing. 

The first thought I have is that now Dr. Skagle is going to take Cat to task for failing to see the OB in a timely manner and missing a serious issue — and then me for not being more involved, something I’ve admittedly struggled with internally since the beginning. I can’t formulate any excuses, because I really don’t have any. I get ready for it. 

“Okay,” says Dr. Skagle. She clears her throat. “So I have good news and bad news for you guys.” 

I nod, and squeeze Cat’s hand when she tries abruptly to sit up and slide out of the bed. 

“Cat,” I appeal gently. 

“What.” 

“Just… wait until she’s done, at least,” I chide her, as gently as I can. 

Cat sits back with ill grace, and presses an arm to her chest, gripping her forearm. 

“Well, the good news is,” Dr. Skagle announces, “you’re not having a miscarriage.” 

I exhale with dizzying relief, so overcome I damn near fall off my chair, but then, Dr. Skagle goes on — and the world grinds to a profound, screeching halt. 

“The bad news is that you’re not miscarrying because you were never pregnant. What’s happening now is just your menstrual cycle, Catalina.” 

These words might as well have been issued in Aramaic or some other dead language. I pause, and stare blankly at Dr. Skagle, trying to wrap my head around them, comprehend them, assimilate their meaning. 

This is not something I _ever_ thought to hear — it wasn’t even in the realm of possibility, within the bounds of any scope of reality when I swept Catalina to the hospital. 

“…I’m sorry?” I asked, frowning, leaning toward her a bit. 

“ _Cariño,”_ Catalina said, tugging my hand. 

“The ultrasound, the pelvic exam… neither of them expressed a pregnancy. They were completely indicative of the exact opposite, in fact. The bleeding and cramping you’re experiencing, Miss Flores, is just your period.” 

I stare, my jaw slackening, still failing to comprehend what I’m hearing, pinballing between a million feelings. 

What am I _hearing?_

_Just her period —_

“How… how is that _possible?”_ I ask, floundering. There has to be an error here _somewhere._ “Did she… I mean, is there any way the exams could be wrong?” 

“No, Dick,” Dr. Skagle says bluntly. “These are about as foolproof as they come, I’m afraid. And I oversaw them, so I can tell you there weren’t any errors.” 

“Is it possible she got a false positive, then?” I ask, gesticulating. At some point I don’t remember, I had risen to my feet. 

“ _Cariño,”_ Catalina says a little more forcefully. I tug my hand from her grip. 

“Given the results of the blood samples and the urinalysis we took,” she says, “no. It would be borderline impossible. False positives almost _never_ occur. Even pseudocyesis — hysterical pregnancy — is a phenomenon that’s _exceptionally_ rare. I’ve been a doctor for twenty years and I’ve only met one of my fellows that’s encountered one. And a chemical pregnancy would have revealed HCG in our tests. And the results turned up none.” 

I stand, unspeaking, unmoving. Catalina had sent me photos of a positive test — _positive —_ while I was at work last month. I had taken it as something of a confirmation — something that solidified this, made it fully real. 

But… 

Was it? 

_Why hasn’t she been to the doctor —_

_The timing of this pregnancy bothers me —_

_All of us are worried —_

_Do you really know this person? —_

_If someone could do that — someone that close to you — it’s scary. It’s downright scary —_

A photo purloined from a friend’s Facebook page, or ganked from someone’s blog, hell, even a Google Image search could have made those texts look legit — 

I dig my heels in. No. This _can’t_ be the case. It’s not possible. It’s not what’s happening here. I can’t even let myself _think_ it. Catalina — the one I know, the woman who’s loved me hard and totally even when I don’t deserve it, who cares with every fiber of her being, who’s been the nurturing, loving, supportive presence I never even knew I needed, who’s been my best friend and Rock of Gibraltar — would never, ever, _ever_ lie to me like this, about this. This is _not_ the person I know. This is _not_ the woman I love. There’s some dumb, lame mistake somewhere, some totally easy and justifiable explanation — she’s not lying to me, having me on, playing me for a fool for reasons I don’t even know — 

Even as I try to rationalize what I’m hearing, explain it away, exonerate it, present it in a way that makes some semblance of sense — I look imploringly down at Catalina. 

And my heart _totally falls._

I can read her body language like a large print, open book. The tense hunch of her shoulders. The defensive positioning of her arms across her chest. The knitted brows. The clenched jaw. The staunch refusal to look at me. 

_This can’t be,_ I think madly, starting to sweat. _It can’t be. No._

“Catalina,” I murmur. 

She says nothing. She does nothing. She doesn’t even turn her head. 

“Cat… _please_ tell me this isn’t what it looks like,” I whisper to her. 

She flicks her eyes toward me, silent for a moment before she speaks. “Dick —” 

Seconds from abruptly falling into a full-blown meltdown, I lift a trembling hand and shake my head when I hear the pleading tone in her voice, see the look in those beautiful dark eyes, the eyes that have kept me wrapped around her finger for months. It’s the tone that unmistakably screams _guilt_ in bald, plain language, the look of someone who _knows_ they’re finally cornered, finally caught — and decides at last to cooperate. I’ve seen it thousands of times as a cop _and_ a vigilante. 

“Dr. Skagle,” I say, my heart accelerating, my chest going flush and tremulous, “can I talk to you out in the hall for a second?” 

The expression in Catalina’s eyes, the intonation of her voice — 

No. I can’t accept this as is. I can’t take it at face value. I have to hear it again — this time in compressed, unadulterated speech, and this time outside of the sweaty confines of this curtained space. I need to _digest_ this terrible information, if it’s true, somewhere safe and separate, _away_ from Catalina — where I have some chance of breaking it down into manageable chunks and swallowing it piecemeal before it destroys me. 

Skagle nods, and I follow her in a vibrating, overwrought daze into the greenish light of the hall. 

Once there, I look at her beseechingly. 

“Dr. Skagle…” I say, my voice hoarse and undulating, “is there any chance that… there was some mistake somewhere? That Catalina was just… wrong, or — or confused? That it’s not how it looks?” 

“I can’t say much,” she warns me. “Catalina is my patient.” 

“That’s fine,” I say. “Confidentiality and all that, I understand. But I _am_ her next-of-kin at this point — can you at least answer _some_ of my questions?” 

There’s a pause as she inclines her head. 

“Well. How do you think it looks?” Dr. Skagle asks neutrally. 

“I don’t… want to say until you at least give me _something_ to go on.” 

She nods and sighs, her expression now much more sympathetic. “Well, Dick, it’s… incredibly unlikely that there was a mistake. The exams we performed here are rarely faulty — yes, even here at underfunded RABE, they’re not likely to be faulty — and so many of them?” She shakes her head. “Not to mention… false positives in this day and age generally just don’t happen. So I highly, _highly_ doubt Catalina was wrong or confused — or if she was, that’s confusion to such a degree I’d almost say she needs to be committed to the psych ward. And chemical pregnancies would have expressed levels of HCG, and this doesn’t appear to me to be consistent with pseudocyesis…” Her brows furrow and she crosses her arms. “Let me ask you — did Catalina ever _show_ you a test that she’d taken?” 

“…She sent me a picture,” I say, my stomach sinking. “Via text.” 

Dr. Skagle inclines her head. “So… what do you think?” 

I feel sick. My wound site hurts. The heat in my body all rushes to my head, exiting my core, leaving me cold and trembling. 

“I think…” I whisper hoarsely, and clear my throat. “I think she might have lied to me.” 

Every word squeezes its way out of my mouth as heavy as a hot stone. 

“Would Catalina have _reason_ to lie?” Dr. Skagle asks. 

I gaze at her a moment, still hopelessly lost and floundering. 

Then, I just stand in silence, averting my eyes, and not looking at Dr. Skagle for a long series of endless moments. My mind sprints madly, every step landing on tracks of landscape, each clicking into place one by one, until they all slowly come together to create a solid, comprehensible map. And my heart, constricting, hurting, _cracking,_ sinks more and more with every step my mind takes. 

I press my knuckles to my upper lip, inhale through my nose, and close my eyes. 

I don’t want to think on this. I don’t want to dwell on this or consider this. I don’t even want to _acknowledge_ this. If I do, the roseate glow that recolors the ugly color scale in front of me will vanish — and I will finally be forced to look the cold, uncaring truth straight in its hideous face. 

But I know. I know the answer. 

_Hotheaded. Angry. Impulsive. Manipulative._

_Manipulative —_

“…Yes,” I whisper on the exhale, opening my eyes. I lower my hand. 

Dr. Skagle reaches over, and clasps my arm. Everything’s gone numb, all of my senses and limbs spontaneously asleep. My heart stalls in my chest, refusing to beat, my lungs equally in stasis. 

_How can this be,_ I wonder wildly, _how did it come to this, how did this happen, how did I_ miss _it —_

“Then… I’d say the two of you need to have a very serious conversation,” she tells me, her voice simultaneously dark and sympathetic. 

I’m silent, barely able to quell the tears that threaten to come at any second in an explosive outburst, all at once disgusted with myself and filled with a sick, permeating shame. Dr. Skagle reaches over to squeeze my shoulder, and turns to walk down the hall. I fall into step behind her, wordlessly trailing her footfalls, in one moment of clarity emailing Mat with a few sensitively worded cautionary lines, until we reenter the triage room. Cat’s dressed by now, her arms crossed over her chest, her demeanor hostile and guarded. She doesn’t speak to me as I come into the room behind Dr. Skagle. 

The next interim passes in an endless, pulsing, slow-motion blur, all of it blending into a nebulous cloud of overwhelming stimuli that threatens to unspool me over the series of infinite timelines. We go through the process of Cat’s release, the reminders, the paperwork. I bust out my credit card and pay up front to just get it over with. 

It occurs to me on some dim, stupid level that I have a lot facing me over the next weeks, some of which it’s unlikely I’m anywhere near up for. My stomach at the wound site is so tight and painful it’s a wonder I’m walking at all — and when I do, it’s with an uneven, limping gait. Getting my stuff out of Catalina’s (because I doubt anything she tells me from here will reverse my determination that we’re done here, _fin,_ the end, that’s all, folks), figuring out where I’m going to live now (I wonder if my apartment has been leased yet and if Hank will let me rent from him again after bouncing without proper notice), getting my computers out of Cat’s basement sooner rather than later so I can track Blockbuster (who’s out on bail, figures), studying for the detective’s exam, healing in general, dealing with this veritable goddamn Everest of shit right in front of me… And right now, it’s all I can do to stay on my feet. I’m not driving myself anywhere after this, and I’m _not_ getting into the car with Cat. Again, I doubt anything she has to say for herself will change my mind to that end. 

Fuck. 

I just take one moment to be thankful for the fact that at least my computers are nigh impenetrable and I changed their passcodes recently, that I have my phone, I have my wallet, and I can take Catalina off my accounts at any time. 

I viciously sign the credit receipt, tell the receptionist to have a good night, and limp away from the vestibule. Catalina ghosts behind me as I lead her out of the emergency department to her car, not speaking, not looking at her. Speaking means opening Pandora’s Box and unleashing all of the nightmares and demons within; looking at her means facing all of the unthinkable, unimaginable _heartbreak_ that waits for me in all of those demons and nightmares, inside of that box. 

It’s dark out, the wind screaming and wheeling around us. It cuts through my hoodie and tee, cinching around my sutures. I barely notice and hardly care. 

I stop at her car, and lean against the driver’s side door. She stands in front of me, stooped, resigned — defeated. 

I cross my arms, and take a breath. 

Time to open the box — and face what lies within. 

“Start talking,” I say in a low, even tone, confining my seething turmoil, “and tell me the truth.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hijo de puta: Son of a bitch  
> Carina: Babe, sweetheart (f)  
> Querido: Darling, dear (romantic)  
> Princesa: Princess  
> Carino: Babe, honey, sweetheart (m)


	17. The Yawning Grave (1)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's poppin, y'all! <3 Hope all's well! <3 ^_^
> 
> Phew. What a chapter, lol. Dick Rage Mode, Engage. XD Side note, trigger warning of sorts: Yes, he says some very unkind things, but they are NOT AT ALL intended to be pejorative to the mentally ill, by neither him nor the author.
> 
> This was pretty exhausting and straining, not going to lie, guys... *wipes brow* Beta was happy, and my other friend who looked it over was satisfied, as well. <3 Hopefully I've been Baymax to all of you and you all are equally satisfied with your care, lol. XD
> 
> If you're so inclined... Definitely check out The Yawning Grave by Lord Huron, since the title is a direct reference to that tune. <3 Shipz, I can't tell you how excited I was to intentionally apply that one to this... AHHHHH. :D <3 <3 Thank you so much for making the first connection between that song and this story! <3 <3 YOU ARE MY ANGEL OF MUSIC *sings* liiiight and guardian XD
> 
> Oh, shit's gettin' real... zero to villain in T-minus three, two, one... XD
> 
> An author's note, and Spanish to English are included in the end note. :D 
> 
> Enjoy, y'all!! <3 Happy reading!! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 17**

Upstairs, in my house, the house that is suddenly so empty, so silent and dark and lifeless, I have nothing but my cramps and headache and bone-deep exhaustion for company. I sit heavily on the bed, the bed that still smells like you, still seems so full of you. _Everything_ in this house is still so full of you, the very air infused with _you._

Still in shock, still processing, I draw a blanket up, and inhale your scent. Then, I let the tears come. 

I held onto you with all my strength, even when I knew the curtains were closing on the performance that I labored over since last month. The illusion that I built, that I painted, that I conducted until it was almost _real._ I cleaved to you. I fought for you. I stood fast, and battled to _make_ it real. And it yet might have been — except I failed to account for one thing. 

Your big heart. 

Of course you wouldn’t abandon your lover, your baby. Of course you wouldn’t leave me to suffer heartache and pain alone. And of course you’d be stubborn and disobedient and disregarding of a doctor’s orders if you saw fit, and naturally you _were_ when you thought you were losing your child. 

When you refused to budge even an inch, I damn near panicked. I tottered on the edge of complete and utter bedlam, all but exploding to bits in my rampaging alarm. 

Now what was I to do, _cariño?_ I stuffed the mounting discord and mustered the entire drive to the hospital, fighting to gain a foothold as my sprinting thoughts whirled around me and left me stumbling. What options did I have? What could I _do?_

I thought to get you out of the room somehow, and then make it clear to Skagle that I didn’t want my diagnosis released to you. She would be legally bound not to share a single thing with you if I did so, even if you were my next-of-kin, or even if she thought it best. My condition of menses certainly wouldn’t be considered life-threatening. She’d risk legal trouble if she ran her mouth. 

That _was_ part of the original plan, you know — invoking those confidentiality rights. The idea was to leave you at home, where you were ordered to stay, anyway, have Mat take me in, and ask him to stay in the waiting room (because who wants to have a pelvic exam done while their _hermano mayor_ is in the room? Ew.) Then upon diagnosis, play dumb, and state that I really _thought_ I was pregnant because of my unusually late cycle — _But doctors, I was so convinced!_ They would have no way of knowing I sent you a stolen photo of a positive test (to appease your barbarian friends — _your_ trust was never a problem.) Then I would ask that we please keep this between us — _I’m so embarrassed!_ — blah, blah. Then Mat would take me home, no one any the wiser. 

Truly, it was a perfectly plausible ruse. 

But it fell through the moment you refused to stay home, that you dug your heels in and got your Batkid up. I’d have fought you — actually _fought_ you, but you were already sweating by the time you reached the car. You were hurting. You were in pain. I could still fix this disintegrating situation _somehow,_ but I couldn’t fix the potential ramifications of knocking you out and leaving you on the floor of the garage. How on earth would I explain _that_ one when you came around? Such an action would only create trouble for me later. 

I concocted the plan to get you to leave the room we’d wind up in, and then go through with my original plan of attack, as we walked through the double doors to the emergency department. You were somewhat helping me walk — comical, seeing as how you could barely stay on your own feet. I prayed, and waited for the right moment to come. 

And when it did, things did _not_ go at all according to plan. 

Everything fell together perfectly _im_ perfectly. You did not leave the room when Skagle entered, like I asked. Partly because that traitorous witch _told_ you to stay in the room (and then proceeded to give me the single most unctuous, judging look I’ve ever gotten from _anyone_ since the whole Redhorn debacle), and partly because you listened to her for once, at the most inconvenient moment imaginable. 

And then you were quickly and _wholly_ enraged when that frizzy-haired, wannabe Professor Trelawney gave us the news. 

You resisted what you heard at first, verbally rationalizing and explaining it away, providing alternate understandings of the information given to you by Skagle. I tried to get you to shut up — the more you said, the more you heard, and the worse everything would be. But you were obstinate and determined now — and visibly shaken and dismayed, you dragged Skagle out into the hall. 

I was fucked. And I knew it. You already knew — nothing Skagle told you or didn’t tell you would matter. I gambled, gambled _everything,_ and I lost. I was totally, totally fucked. 

I thought, then, to work with you instead, as you sat stunned beneath the exploding bombshell of what you’d heard. In moments of shock and disbelief, people will generally believe anything that might soften the blows that have fallen on them — they are easy, pliant, willing to trust that the gentler versions of things are the _right_ ones. 

But not you. 

I have never seen you like you were in the hospital lot, _cariño._ Never. I have, of course, seen you angry, seen you hurt, seen you disappointed, seen you in moments of betrayal — but never, _ever_ like this. 

You remained outwardly calm, but I could sense the seething rage you barely checked as we walked out of the emergency department and into the lot. I could perceive the set of your jaw, the urgency and aggravation of your limping gait, the incendiary flicker in your blue eyes. 

Then, when you crossed your arms and spoke, I saw it. 

You were not my Dick, no. You were not my friend, my lover, my mentor, my partner. You were not _mi caballero blanco._ Not anymore. 

I was seeing you now on the other side, witnessing you as Corporal Grayson, as Nightwing, as an opponent. As an _enemy._ You spoke to me as a cop, as an investigator, as a masked, identity-less vigilante. Boreal around a core as hot as blue fire, hard as a mountainside, removed as the far side of the galaxy. Baited. Hair-triggered. Dangerous. 

Angry. 

“Start talking,” you said, your eyes flinty, far colder than the air around us, your arms crossed hard over your chest, “and tell me the truth.” 

I took a breath. I was crying tears now that were very, very real, brought on by your demeanor that was both glacial and blazing, by your deliberate removal and distance from me, by the fact that I was just barely holding onto you — if I held you at all. I thought to talk you around, to pull your strings, pluck your notes, push your buttons. I knew what to say, and how to say it, didn’t I? I _know_ you, after all, _querido._ Like it or not, _I know you._ I know how to speak to you. Which parts of you to appeal to. Which to avoid probing. I figured I could yet regain the upper hand. 

At least… I thought I did. 

I was wrong. 

“It wasn’t… always going to be a lie,” I said, my voice and words careful, questing. “It wasn’t, _querido.”_

“Don’t call me that,” you said. Your own voice was clipped, hot, stony. “What do you mean, it wasn’t always going to be a lie? Explain that to me.” 

“…I only lied because I was afraid you were going to leave me,” I said, the emotion in my voice not faked, the imploring note authentic, real. “Dick, _everyone I love_ has either died or left me. And you were going to abandon me — _just like everyone else.”_ I irritably wiped at my nose, which ran under the tears and cold. 

“You thought I was going to abandon you because I wasn’t giving you the kind of relationship you wanted.” You issued this as a statement — not a question. 

“Well, weren’t you?” I asked pitifully, gesturing, wiping an eye, appealing to your gentle, tender-hearted nature. 

“No,” you stated flatly — anything but gentle and soft. “I wasn’t going to abandon you. Not reciprocating is _not_ synonymous with abandonment, Catalina. But what you’re telling me here is that you thought I was going to run out on you just because I didn’t return your feelings like you hoped I would — and so you _lied_ to me.” 

“It wouldn’t always have been a lie,” I protested, fighting with a feeling of exasperation. It had never taken you so long to fold, _querido —_ and now, you weren’t giving a damn centimeter. “I never _meant_ for it to be a lie. I _wanted_ it to be the truth. It _would_ have been the truth eventually!” 

You stared in silence for a moment. 

“So _now_ you’re telling me that you didn’t come onto me all the time because you loved me or wanted me,” you said. “You’re telling me you did it to get what you wanted out of me. Which was basically to keep up your ruse — and keep me totally snowed. You took _advantage_ of me.” 

“That’s not fair, _cariño,”_ I insisted. “I didn’t do it just for that. Of course I love you and want you —” 

I reached for you, ready now to comfort you, seeing how hurt and dismayed you were. Those two things I could certainly work with, mollify, appease. You held up a hand, however, and straightened, your body gone even more tensile and stand-offish than before. 

“You do _not_ want to touch me right now,” you growled, the ululations of your voice unsettling my already twisting, cramping gut. “And stop with the pet names. What was it, then, if it wasn’t _just that?”_

“Oh, _please.”_ Angry now, I sneered and waved a frustrated arm. “You are the only man on this planet and the next who would get all butt-hurt about having a good-looking woman come onto you all the time for _whatever_ reason, you damn Boy Scout — _mierda!_ I would never hear someone like Fregley or Soames or Redhorn or even _Desmond_ complain! You ought to hear how ridiculous you sound — what, you’re _whining_ about getting lucky with a ten more than once?” 

You scoffed incredulously, your shoulders squaring and tightening, your biceps bulging against the sleeves of your sweatshirt. I crossed my own arms, then freed one to keep gesturing as I went on to fill the tense, horrible silence. 

“Sorry,” I said bearishly. “That was wrong. But look, you would never have known any differently, anyway — tell me, if we weren’t standing here right now, what would any of it really have mattered? What difference would it really have made if you hadn’t found out? Tell me — what?” 

“That’s not what we’re talking about right now,” you stated. “And we’re not _going_ to talk about that. Right now, I want you to answer me. _Without_ giving me the runaround or playing on my emotions or trying to make me look like a total jackass.” 

“Well, what do you want me to answer, Dick?” I asked, exasperated. “Be specific, _por favor.”_

“Why did you lie?” you said. “And what else have you lied to me about?” 

“I already told you,” I said. “And I haven’t lied to you about anything else. _La verdad.”_

“ _No te creo._ There’s more to it than what you’re telling me,” you said. “Spill.” 

“Dick, what do you want me to say?” I asked, again, waving a hand. “I lied because you were going to make a terrible decision, whether you realized it or not. I lied because I wanted to keep you with me — because everyone else I’ve ever loved has run out on me in _some_ way or another. I lied because even if it was a _lie at first,_ it was what was best for you, what was _going_ to be best for you. And you make a pretty poor pass at knowing what’s right or what’s best where you’re concerned — _don’t_ pretend you don’t.” 

You were quiet for a moment, your arms tightening over your rapidly swelling and ebbing chest. 

“So you’re essentially saying that you lied to me about something serious — _really serious,_ Cat, like, this wasn’t some white lie, like ‘No, I did not fart while you were eating,’ or what the hell ever — because you presumed to know what was best for me? That you basically came in and just totally uninvited started stomping your clumsy-ass feet around inside my life? That you _deceived_ me into staying with you and then let me go on _living_ that lie like a pathetic moron? Because it was _what was best for me?”_ You gestured wildly, heedless of your stitches. “Jesus — you were going to let me believe my baby had died! Who _does_ that, Catalina?” 

I defiantly held your gaze. There was a brief moment of loaded silence as you stared me down over the arms you crossed again — as though you held your own body restrained. Your eyes were hotter and brighter than a supernova, that frightening gaze trained on me somehow alien and threatening. When you spoke again, your voice was harsh and furious. 

“…They were right, weren’t they?” You laughed bitterly. “They were — _all_ of them were. Barbara, Wally, Artemis, Bruce — _all of them._ On every single count! And I _defended_ you to them! And the whole time you _set me up —_ and you played me! You _completely played_ me! God, and I took up for you —” You sputtered in fury, and again, gestured. “And you played me for a fucking _fool_ the entire time, Cat!” 

“That’s not true —” 

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” you shouted, cutting me off, thrusting an arm in an incensed motion. You grimaced in obvious discomfort, but the expression passed quickly. 

“Don’t go there,” I hissed, meeting your exploding temper with my own. “Don’t go asking what’s wrong with me or acting like I’m such a villain, here. Don’t accuse me of things I didn’t do just because what I _did_ do doesn’t align with your almighty Boy Scout principles. And leave your goddamn barbarian friends out of this.” My voice rose, and I started to gesture. “ _Maldito tarado_ hypocrite — don’t you _dare_ make it out to be like I don’t love you! Everything I _ever did_ was because I love you, Dick — because _I care!_ _I’m_ the one who gives a damn, who sees what you need, who _understands_ you. No one — _no one,_ not your friends, not your brothers, not your partner, not your disgusting ex — understands you or knows you like I do. _No one_ loves you like I do, _mi amor,_ no one — and I’ve done nothing but take care of you and give you _everything_ you need since the day we met. And I’ve done it because _I’m_ the one who loves you — not them!” 

You just eyed me for a long series of moments. Then suddenly you snorted, and shook your head. 

“Jesus Christ, Catalina,” you said. “Do you even _hear_ yourself? You are _totally_ delusional — you need _help —”_

“Don’t tell me what I need, you sanctimonious ass,” I growled. “Not when you can’t even see what it is _you_ need.” 

“You need a psychiatrist,” you stated. “Not a shrink, not a therapist, not a psychologist — a _psychiatrist._ Because this is — this is _beyond_ off the reservation. You need _meds,_ Cat. You’re barely an inch from needing a padded room, for God’s sake!” 

“What would _you_ know about what I need?” I demanded. “You don’t even know what _you_ need! Don’t pretend to be some psychiatric expert all of a sudden!” 

“I know enough to tell you you need help,” you said sharply. “ _Serious_ help.” You paused, looked up at the night sky overhead, and inhaled, clearly trying to pull yourself together. You exhaled, and turned your blazing blue gaze back to me. “And it’s _not_ the kind of help I can give you. It’s not the kind of help I _tried_ to give you. I am _not_ what you need — and I can’t _give_ you what you need. Which is a lot of _professional_ help — and support from your brother. Because —” You waved an angry arm. “I can’t be your support, Cat, not anymore. Not after this.” 

“Don’t you dare say a word about this to Mateo,” I snapped. “That asshole will ruin my life if he hears.” 

“You should probably be thankful to him, since the reason I don’t do more about all the shit you’ve pulled up to now is for his sake,” you said. “And FYI — I already did. I told him everything. I emailed him before I came back into triage.” 

My heart and stomach slid out of me as though popped through a chute. I felt the blood as it drained from my face. “Dick… how could you _do_ that — you had no right — _none —”_

“Yes, I damn well did. I still have to work with him every day, and if he hears whatever fucked up version of this you’re going to spin for him first, that’ll make life a living hell for both of us.” You eyed me. “More than that — _way_ more than that — he has a right to know the truth. This _was_ his hypothetical niece or nephew — and you lied to him every bit as much as you lied to me. I’m not the only person you’ve hurt with this stunt.” 

My stomach fell even further. Mat, I knew, would mop the _floor_ with me over this. You are his friend, his close coworker, and more recently, his confidant and honorary brother. And he does not take kindly to dishonesty — nor to just about anything I do, ever. He will throw me out of the house on my face and leave me to be consumed by the streets of Blüdhaven. 

“Dick, do you even realize what this means?!” I cried. “ _Dios mío,_ I will lose him forever over this — he’ll turn his back on me, for Christ’s sake, can’t you _see_ that —” 

“Mat is your brother — you’re not going to lose him,” you said. “Whatever you might think, he loves you, and you should just thank your lucky stars you still have him. Stop being so dramatic.” 

I gestured frantically, despairing, lost. 

“Don’t you _dare_ call me dramatic, you goddamn _pendejo,_ you don’t know him like I do — I _am_ going to lose him over this — he’s going to throw me out for good — _el Jesucristo,_ you don’t know what you’ve done! You are _breaking my heart,_ _mi querido —”_

You astonished me when you burst into embittered laughter. “I’m breaking _your_ heart? _That’s_ all you can think about? That’s all you can see, here?” You shook your head, slumping now as you laughed. “Well, you’ve fucking _destroyed_ mine, Cat. Congratulations.” 

There was a moment of terrible silence as we gazed at one another, you baleful and hot, I pleading and desperate. 

“Dick,” I implored. “Please. _Please, cariño._ This isn’t you. This isn’t what you want. This isn’t what you think —” 

“Stop.” You pulled your wallet out of your back pocket and pulled a card from it before repocketing your billfold. “Just stop. Stop telling me what I think or how I feel. Stop trying to play me like an instrument and manipulating me into only seeing what I want to see — and call this number. Giving you the contact info for a really good psychiatrist is the last thing I’m going to do for you. Because after this — I never want to see your lying fucking face again.” You thrust the card at me. “We’re done here.” 

Just like that. 

“Dick,” I begged. “Please. Please don’t leave me like this. Don’t break my heart like this —” 

“You broke your own heart,” you said, your voice laced with equal parts fire and ice. “Don’t call me. Don’t email me. Don’t text me. Don’t contact me, period. After tonight — I _never_ want to see you again for as long as I live. Stay the hell away from me.” Your posture lifted, your shoulders widening to their full breadth, your arms separating from your sides like a meathead’s. “And while we’re at it, stay the hell away from my friends and family, too. Don’t come near my _coworkers,_ even. And if I catch you running around the Blüd as Tarantula, I’ll throw you in the can on the spot. We clear?” 

“Dick —” 

“Someone will be over to pick up my stuff tomorrow, since I can’t move it myself right now,” you said, interrupting me. “And as an aside, I wouldn’t pull anything with whoever comes over tomorrow for your own sake — you’re _no one’s_ favorite person right now and they’d love any excuse to get into it with you.” 

I reached for you, sobbing now, begging incoherently, unabashed, uncaring about how it might look to outsiders. You thrust my arms away, and although the action snagged your breath in your throat for the briefest moment, you stood your ground and did the same when I made a second, more concerted effort. Then a third — this one bordering on violent and desperate, and that nearly sent me to my knees when you sidestepped me. 

“ _Q_ _uerido, por favor —”_

“I already said you do _not_ want to touch me,” you snarled. “And if I _ever_ have to touch you again, you will _not_ like it — I’ll tell you that here and now. Back the fuck off or I’m calling my pals at the BPD — you need to cool down, and if that means a few days in the clink, so be it.” 

I hauled back at this point and threw a punch at you. It was all I could think to do, all I had left. Knock you out, wipe the slate clean, bring you back to the house, get your head back on straight. Once we were away from that lot, from those overpowering, green-washed lights, from the cold and wind, from the sickening tension — you would realize that I was right, that I’d only ever had your best interest in mind, that I was what was right for you. You would even forgive me the clunk on the head in _this_ particular case— it was a necessary evil, you’d agree. You would realize that I couldn’t bear to allow you to throw your entire life and chances at real happiness and fulfillment away, and that I had done whatever I had to do in order to safeguard you. You would think me noble, fearless, selfless. You would then call me your hero, your knight — the one who rescued you from the tower of your friends’ making and your own. 

I was flattened when you — injured, distraught, distracted, unexpecting — deftly blocked my throw with as much ease as swatting a slow, fat, indolent fly. And if you were angry before, you were _furious_ now. You held a hand up, palm out — a warning. 

“Try to hit me again,” you growled, “and I will equalize you. Don’t think I won’t.” You stepped away. “Get the hell away from me or I’m bringing in the BPD.” 

“Oh, what for?” I scoffed tearfully, sneering. 

“Disorderly conduct, assault, public disturbance, disturbing the peace, harassment, what else would you like me to have them throw at you?” You lifted your hands. “I can think of probably sixty more charges right off the top of my head I could readily chuck into the mix. Like I said, you need to cool off — and if that’s going to require a couple days in jail, I’m not going to sweat over it. I’ve locked up people less unhinged than you are for a hell of a lot less.” 

I snorted. “So you abuse your power, just like the rest of them. In other words, you’re completely full of shit.” 

You gave me an eerie, mirthless, entirely uncharacteristic smile. “You want to talk about abuse of power and being full of shit? Look in the fucking mirror.” You pulled your phone out of your pocket. “Now piss off.” 

You took off across the lot then at a limping, uneven stride. I stood helplessly, pouring tears that fell to my chest, at a loss for how I could possibly have held you as my own that morning, just to lose you in a breath the same night. Watching you, I felt as though I were trying to hold onto an avalanche. And I knew that if I followed you, there would be blood — _real_ blood, and no chance at reconciliation. I was already sure to be dead to Mat as it was — and if I landed in jail, I’d be unsurprised if he did the job himself. 

I don’t recall much of the drive home, just that I cried the entire way, screamed at slow pedestrians and obnoxious Sunday drivers, and didn’t wear my seatbelt. I stumbled into my house, cramping, spent, and overcome. 

How did I lose you so quickly? How did this happen? How did it come to this? All of my painstaking planning, all of my careful maneuvering, all of my attention to detail and agony over minutiae— how could this _be?_

And where am I to go from here? My life had very little purpose after John and the baby, _mi amor,_ minus ridding this earth of Redhorn. And once I ended that bastard, _you_ became my purpose. Our gorgeous children that we would have had became my purpose. Our life, our family, our work, our love — they were every reason for me to _be._

And now it’s gone. It’s _gone._ All in a blink, I lost you. You, the one, single good thing in my wasted life, my only cause for carrying on the hard task of living. 

I underestimated you, I realize. I lost sight of _you_ beneath the overlay of all of the plates I had spinning. Even if I thought I was meticulous, I became overconfident, assured, sloppy. And I dropped plates without even noticing that I had. 

You are the most loving, forgiving, generous, positive soul that I have ever encountered, _cariño._ It is so much of what makes you so beautiful, so special. But I should have known that even you would draw the line if you were to learn that I lied to you about a child that did not exist. You gave up so much for me, Dick, for this falsified baby. I know you did. You with your heart bigger than this city, this state, this world. I ought to have known that if my lie, however noble, was brought to light, you, even you with that same big heart, would leave me. You would leave me. You would receive it as the worst betrayal you have ever experienced, no matter how I tried to help you see this rationally, in the way that I do, to view this situation from my eyes. You are a wonderful person. But even you have your limits. And you are not weak. 

You _did_ see it as the worst betrayal. And you have left me. 

I turn all of the rage that paddles in nauseating circles inside me outward — and unleash. 

I hurl my fists, my knees, the soles of my boots into everything I can connect them with. I hurl the desk chair into the wall, where it gouges a mound of paint, plaster, and drywall from the surface in a cloud of dust. The chair itself splinters and loses two of its legs before bouncing into the bookshelves. I tear the shelf from above my desk away from the wall and heave it toward the window, where it bursts through the panes in a shower of glass and breaking trophies. The wind immediately whips into the room. On some level, I know I’ll regret that later, but for now, I don’t care. I rip the string lights from the wall, the ones Viviana helped me set up back in high school. I shred the Iron Maiden poster that now used to hang on the back of the closet door. I yank the door from the track and shove it into the hall, attack the window curtains with unbridled ferocity. The rod pops out of the wall to slam into the floor. I strip the bed and pull viciously at the bedsheet until it rips up the middle with a sound like a loud zipper. 

I fall atop the mound of bedding, all of it still smelling of you, that lovely, mixing, citrusy-herbal scent that I’ve come to cherish and associate with you, and sob myself ragged. I pull myself onto the stripped mattress, and curl around the wad of sheets and blankets, crying until I’m spent, hoarse, and nauseous. I cry until I physically cannot cry anymore. 

As I lie here empty and all but dead on the barren mattress now, the ceiling overhead blurring into a gray wash in my fuzzing sight, I tiredly turn over every last event, every last possibility in my mind’s eye, as though they are cards with something to be revealed on the underside. 

It all dawns on me in a slow, bored epiphany, one that reveals itself like a disinterested auditioner. A little bit at a time, no rush now, the best is yet to come — and guess what, _chica._ It ain’t that great. 

It comes back partly to Blockbuster, the one who removed the tracks our train was on and violently derailed us, doesn’t it? The irony of it is almost humorous. He brought us together, in a way, and then he just as effectively drove us apart. 

And it comes back to those monsters you surround yourself with, those Grima Wormtongues that whisper poison into your ear, those Lady Macbeths that puppeteer your every move to further their own selfish desires, too, doesn’t it, _querido?_ If you did not have the white noise of your friends’ and family’s toxic words forever underlying the cadence of your own thoughts, you would hear clearly, see clearly. You would. 

I clench my teeth. I can’t just lie here, folding, dying. I can’t destroy inanimate objects and expect that to be a sufficient means of taking back what is mine. A desk chair, a shelf, a window, a sheet — they are sorry stand-ins for what I _need_ to destroy. What am I _doing?_

You are mine, Dick. _Mine._ _Eres mio._ _Y por siempre —_ you don’t get to just run off and leave me here in a puddle of tears and a pile of debris. I sit up and wipe the half-dried tracks from my cheeks. My fists clench. My heart hammers. My chest burns. My ire rises. 

How dare you, _cariño._ Who the fuck do you think you are? I protected you. I loved you. I safeguarded you. I sacrificed everything for you. I took on the ugly tasks, the things no one wants to do, filthied my hands in order to see you happy. Whatever that _mamadas_ was about my jumping you to keep up my ruse, I sucked your cock _nightly,_ for God’s sake, and did it gladly — you don’t just walk away from someone who gave you _everything._ I bent over backwards, all but breaking my spine like a stick for you — and you _walk away_ from me? 

Revived somewhat, I formulate the beginnings of a plan. My nails dig into my palms. 

You have declared something of a mutiny, you puffed up bastard — haven’t you? And you know what? That’s fine. Have your little hyped-up, misguided rebellion. Get it out of your system. You are _mine —_ and I _will_ take you back. You are like fire, _mi querido,_ but I am like water — and as a flood can always be counted upon, I will snuff even your worst infernos. 

It’s desperate, madcap, insensate, this plan — but it’s necessary. It is the only play that will achieve the end I seek. However extreme and multifaceted, however rife with casualties, however gruesome an impact it has, it is the single best option I now have to truly temper and control your fire. 

In this course of action, I can kill _so many birds_ with only a few stones. I can exact my vengeance on Blockbuster, rid your life of the hideous, virulent snakes that are your friends and family, ride in as your _caballera blanca_ when you need me most — and make you mine for _good._

If I have to go to the extremes for you to see that at the end of the day, _I_ am the one who will continue to stand by you, _I_ am the one who remains when the dust settles, _I_ am the one who will not leave you no matter what terrors befall you in the night — then so be it. 

_Así que sea._

I stand, my despair now replaced with a red, seething vengeance and resolve. You have pushed me to this point. You have brought me to the brink. What I do next, _querido,_ is your own doing. You pressed the button — now watch the world go up in flames. 

You are mine. You will _never_ leave me again. Because when the fire gutters and you look around you at all the rubble that you yourself caused, you’ll realize that everyone, everything is gone. No one, nothing is left. _I_ will be all that you have, all that still stands — all at once your entire world. And you will run to me, needing me, begging me. You will plead my forgiveness, and I will grant it. You will pledge your love, and I will readily return it. And then I will fill your life with that same love that you do not even realize that you deserve, that you continually spurn out of your ludicrous insistence on punishing yourself. 

I can eventually forgive you this night, this day, _precioso_. You do not know what you do, after all. You are confused, still a lost little boy, desperately searching for the family that died. The family that is gone forever, Dick. And for as long as you seek it, you will never grow up, destined forever to be a Lost Boy trapped in Neverland. You do not know what is best for you. 

Thankfully, you have me — and I _do_ know what is best for you. And I will give you all that is best for you. I will help you leave this arrested life behind. I will provide all that you need, fulfill your puerile desires. Forever. Because you are mine, and I _protect_ what is mine. 

_Lo juro._

And I am not sorry, not nervous, not regretful as I pick up the burner phone, the one I kept anonymously for work in the underground and haven’t unlocked in months, and check my contacts. All are up to date. 

I pen some notes, and draft a timeline, hunching over my desk, making my plans, organizing my resources. 

And then I pull the old tiny cameras that I surreptitiously removed from your apartment just before you moved out from their little locked storage box in my now doorless closet. Wherever you end up, they will go back into place. I need to track your every move from here until the moment comes. 

The play will take time — and time we have, don’t we? 

Weeks of recovery. 

Weeks of planning. 

Weeks of execution. 

And after those weeks, full of real meticulousness and the covering of all of my bases and ensuring there’s not one blank spot in my plans this time — then I will ride. The rider on the pale horse to some. The knight on the white steed to you. 

You are mine. 

And I protect — and _keep —_ what is mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTES!!!
> 
> I feel compelled to bring this up: Dick doesn't actively do more about Catalina, here, RIGHT IN THIS MOMENT, partly for Mat's sake (this could damage his reputation and thereby his career significantly, and since he was rather well-known in the circles they ran in to be in opposition to Redhorn, jeopardize his position just on that front, and Dick and Mat are pretty dang close at this point), and partly because Dick knows he'd need to plan for it more effectively -- he could potentially incriminate himself as an accessory to the murders she committed that he's been made aware of or witnessed, or give himself away as Nightwing if he fails to give proper thought to the matter beforehand. And he's the direct opposite of traught, here -- not in a good spot to start making moves. Needs a time out prior if he's going to start that ball rolling, since he could very well slip in his distress and get mashed under it, as well... eeeeeek. XD Not to mention the fact that just that morning, things with Catalina were on the up-and-up, and he truly DOES love this woman. He -genuinely- loves her. And on some level, he WILL always care about her, and not want to throw her under the bus if he can avoid it, even if he doesn't register that side of things in his fury. But that undercurrent of feeling is there. <3**
> 
> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Hermano mayor: Big brother  
> Mi caballero blanco: My white knight  
> Querido: Darling, dear  
> Mierda: Shit  
> La verdad: The truth  
> No te creo: I don't believe you  
> Maldito tarado: Goddamn dumbass  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Dios mio: My god  
> Pendejo: Asshole  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Por favor: Please  
> Chica: Girl  
> Eres mio. Y por siempre: You are mine. And for always  
> Mamadas: Bullshit  
> Asi que sea: So be it  
> Precioso: Precious  
> Lo juro: I swear


	18. Prodigal Return

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, y'all...
> 
> Hope everything's good. Sick day off work, so I spent my free time editing this. Going to go ahead and drop it now. <3
> 
> Much fluff ahead... Figure we'll need it. XD Calm before the storm and all that! It gets a little syrupy but what the hell ever, lol. :P I like some drippy stuff and melodrama now and then. XD (Or all the time.) XD
> 
> TRIGGER/CONTENT WARNING... There is talk of abusive relationships in this, how they can manifest and take form, feelings for the abuser, the gray areas of abuse, etc.
> 
> Happy reading, loves! <3 ^_^ Enjoy!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 18**

_Feb. 9, 6:12pm_

_**Flores, Mateo**_ _< mateo.flores@bdao.gov>_

_**Grayson, Richard**_ _< richard.grayson@bpdm.gov>_

_**SUBJECT:**_ _RE: Cat_

_Goddamn, Dickie…_

_Just got back from the house. Talked to Cat — man, that’s some seriously tough shit. All I can tell you is… aw, hell, I’m just sorry my sister put you through all this. I pulled some more of the story from her, but only in bits and pieces, and even then, she wasn’t willing to share much. She really didn’t want to see me or talk to me._

_(Guess I don’t blame her. She made a friggin wreck of the house, if you didn’t hear from your brother and abuelo when they went to get your stuff out of there yesterday. She thought I was going to throw her out forever.)_

_And I know you said you purposely aren’t giving me the whole story because she’s my sister, and she definitely didn’t tell me everything, either, but with what I have to go on here, I can fill in most of the blanks pretty comfortably._

_She’s never been the same since John, Viv… Hell. Let’s face it. She hasn’t really been herself since Jaime. I swear, that was like opening the gates and letting whatever hell’s in her just break loose. She fought that hell after she lost Viv, but I think when John died… that just gave her all cause to quit fighting it. And at this point, hermano, it’s overtaking her._

_I know I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. But I agree, she needs help, and honestly she’s NEEDED help since Jaime died._

_The trouble is, though, she’s never been very open to the concept of help. She’s even less open to the concept of cooperation. She’s a contrarian to her core, so good luck even asking her to do something simple like take the trash out._

_Bottom line, I’m just sorry any of this happened. But we’re totally cool, you and I, so don’t sweat coming back to work or anything. I really can’t blame you for ending it… Hurt ME to hear she was lying, I can’t imagine what it did to you. Look, I’ll see if I can start probing Catalina and nudging her in the direction of getting some help, REAL help. Thanks for your understanding regarding her, Dickie. You’re a good person. Rest up, heal up, and see you in a few weeks. You’ll be glad to know IA is investigating none other than S and F in your department as having ties to the big guy out on the most undeserved bail ever, our case is building against B, and the whole thing is looking good for us, bad for them. Just gotta pray we can outdo the crooked colleagues and opponents we’re up against._

_~Mat_

A knock falls softly on my door, pulling me away from thoughts of Catalina, Soames, Fregley, and Blockbuster. 

I lower my iPad, turn the TV down via the remote, and sit up in bed a little. “Come in.” 

As I expected, it’s Alfred, who leans part of the way into my room — the one he and Bruce keep just as it was when I still lived here at the manor (just cleaner than how I kept it. Heh. Sorry, Alfred.) 

“Master Dick,” he says genially, “you have visitors. Shall I see them up?” 

I incline my head. “…Who is it?” 

As far as I know, no one other than Bruce, Alfred, my brothers, and Gannon know I’m here as of the night before last, back at Wayne Manor for the time being. I didn’t even give Gannon the full story yet. 

“Well, sir, the count includes your old teammates, as well as the darling West twins.” 

I sink into the pillows, and look up at the ceiling. I take a deep breath. One part of me rejoices beyond measure to hear that they’ve come. Another shrivels like a dead leaf. 

Guilt sucks. Deserved guilt sucks worse. Shame flat out blows — and ashamed doesn’t even _start_ to cover how I feel. 

Not to mention, I don’t think I’ve _ever_ been so humiliated or felt like such a fucking fool in all my life. 

I could barely bring myself to tell Alfred, Bruce, and Jason, and later Tim, what had happened in any form of detail the other night at RABE. Even now, I’m not sure I can give voice to it. Every word is like a spear of poison lancing through my system, filling my veins with putrefying toxins that pulse within my body like noxious gas. 

I had sat in the gazebo in the gardens (if you can call them that) at the hospital after finally dislodging myself from Catalina, who sobbed audibly from across the lot, yelling unintelligibly at me before I sought refuge in the sheltering gazebo. I banked on every trick Bruce had ever taught me — melting into the shadows, keeping to visual obstructions, finally huddling on the bench in the darkness under the rickety wooden roof. I disappeared in an effort to make it abundantly clear that I was _done._ Even if she continued banshee shrieking in the lot, I was point blank _finished_ with her — and I was legitimately afraid that if I let the confrontation go on even another second, I’d lose all vestiges of control I’d retained by some deific miracle up to then. 

She finally pealed away from the lot, passing by where I hid, and thank the powers that be, not stopping. My sutures burned and ached, an unseen clamp compressed my abdomen. My limbs were weak and vibrating with an internal tremor. My lungs weren’t inflating fully or properly. I needed to lie down in the worst way. 

I sat in my thin hoodie in the bone-chilling cold, shivering, my nose running, the wind cutting through my clothes and skin and into my marrow. For all it was parsecs from comfortable, I appreciated the misery of the Blüdhaven water effect winter — it grounded me, focused me. And I took the moments in the dark, in the comparative quiet, and in the elements to _breathe —_ in, out, in, out. All the way in, even if it hurt. All the way out, even if it hurt. Inhale calm, exhale distress, even if it hurt. Settle down and anchor, even if it hurt. Think, even if it hurt the _most._

I sat for a windy series of chilled, shivering moments there in the darkness of the gazebo, settling, anchoring, and thinking. 

Finally, I pulled my cell phone from my hoodie pocket. I stared at it a moment. 

A sick feeling paddled in my abdominals, something like reticence, fear, nervousness. Even stage fright, maybe. But I lifted the phone, and punched a command into its surface. 

I called Alfred, and just held my breath until he answered. 

And at the sound of his voice, everything inside me unspooled. For a moment, I couldn’t speak. If I did, that would be the end of the fragile blockade I’d constructed against my seething emotions up to now, and the garden at RABE, with people still coming and going from the lot and ambulances appearing every so often, was not the place to allow that to happen. 

When I did speak, I told him everything. All of it. In one swoop. 

There was a pause. 

“Where are you now, Master Dick?” he asked gently. 

“RABE,” I replied, my voice gone thick. “In the garden by the lot.” 

“You just sit tight now, Master Richard, and stay warm,” he said. “I’ll be along shortly.” 

“Okay.” 

I heavily hit the end prompt, and then clenched my arms around my aching abdominals, the strain and sting felt all the way to the exit wound in my back. 

I sat staring into the darkness for what I’d later learn was somewhere in the ballpark of an hour and a half, scarcely feeling the cold and mounting numbness, just holding my arms over my stomach. Everything that had transpired over the last hours enveloped me slowly, wrapping its tendrils around me like a noisome, cloying mist, suffusing my awareness with its cold reality. Under its pervasive weight, my shoulders stooped. My head bowed. My arms tightened around myself. My thoughts galloped at too high a rate of speed for me to articulate them, instead fusing with all that I _felt,_ those feelings clawing and grasping and all but shredding me to bits. 

After what seemed an entire era, I heard the relieving sound of an engine approaching, and the crunching of gravel beneath tires. I looked up, and exhaled when I saw the Navigator draw up by where I sat at the gazebo. 

Alfred climbed out of the driver’s side as I approached the vehicle. I was limping badly, my stomach drawn up into a cinch that emasculated my leg. In spite of the cold, I was sweating — a clammy, icy perspiration that chilled me to the atoms. 

“There now, Master Dick,” Alfred said quietly, extending to me a portable coffee cup that billowed a thin wisp of steam through its opening, “you must be freezing. Let’s get you to the car.” 

I followed him in silence. The compassionate tone in his voice threatened to unravel the very last of my tenuous, delicately woven threads. I’d just barely held it together up to then — I couldn’t believe I didn’t leave an enormous dent in the outside of Catalina’s car not two hours before. I wondered if the only thing that stopped me was the fact that I knew I’d hurt myself even worse and delay my recovery — and therefore the detective’s exam — if I ventilated the screaming rage and heartbreak outward on inanimate objects. 

It was then the passenger door opened, and Bruce came around the front of the car. I halted dead in my steps. 

“Oh, God, _what —”_ I exclaimed, at last overcome, the tears perilously loosening. He was the _one person_ I couldn’t bear to face after this — I just felt so astronomically _stupid,_ a feeling infinitely compounded by his presence. “Why are you here? What, do you wanna _gloat_ or something?” 

Bruce crossed his arms, standing in front of the open driver’s side door. “What am I gloating about?” 

I stood, shaking convulsively, the coffee shivering its way over the rim of the lid, my wound site lancing into a white-hot knot. 

Finally, I huffed mirthlessly and lifted an arm. 

“She lied to me, Bruce,” I said. “She lied to me about everything. She set me up from the beginning. You were right. You happy?” 

Bruce shook his head, and uncrossed his arms. “No, Dick. I’m not happy at all.” 

I paused when I heard the unfiltered and unanticipated warmth and paternity in his voice, so rare and unaccustomed. I’d heard his voice like this only two other times. Just after my family, and just after Wally. I blinked the building tears back as they brimmed higher over my lashline. 

I was taken further aback when the back door of the Navigator opened, and Jason hopped out. I wasn’t expecting him — but I was so damn relieved to see him that I didn’t ask questions. 

“No one’s gloating about anything, Dickie,” he said, coming up beside me. “We’re just here to take your dumb ass home.” 

I stood stupidly a moment, the coffee in hand, and felt my guts twisting up. My fingers went slack. My eyes burned. My chin shook and my lower lip stretched. I barely held onto the cup. 

Then, Alfred’s hand went to my shoulder with a squeeze, his arm around me. 

“Come on, then, Master Dick,” he told me gently. “Let’s go home.” 

I nodded finally, unable to speak, my throat a cold, aching softball. My stomach and back were a wad of compressed discomfort. I was quaking and chattering. I couldn’t walk without a profound limp. 

I was done. I was just done. 

Alfred guided me out of the bitter chill and into the warm, cozy confines of the car, so like a welcoming, loving embrace after an eternity alone. Jason climbed in after, and, reaching over to me, clasped a hand around my wrist. 

“I gotcha, Big Bird,” he murmured to me. 

I froze in place, the softball in my throat about to crack. 

_I gotcha._ The acrobatic hold and term. What I taught him. The grip that safely anchors one body to another midair, the phrase that means one has a good grasp on the other, and they are safe to release the bar with their life secure in the other’s hand. More significant to the two of us than a mere handhold — this same grip is one that’s saved one another from harm more times than I can count. 

I wrapped my fingers around his wrist in return, and let the softball crack. 

I let it all go the entire drive home, with my little wingman’s now huge hand wrapped securely around my wrist, anchoring me to him, bearing me safely home. 

Alfred phoned Tim to set up a time for them to gank my stuff out of Cat’s house when we got to the manor. For my part, I just shambled up to my old room after a morose, mostly silent dinner that I barely touched. I at least was comforted to find my little space in the vast house exactly how I left it, and that’s where I’ve refugeed since. At this point, I have more to convalesce from than a stomach wound. 

I don’t know how my friends might have learned that I’m now in Gotham, since I certainly didn’t say anything, having spent most of yesterday drifting in and out of _Stranger Things_ and not moving from my bed except to hit the bathroom and walk up and down the hall every so often to keep the blood flowing. I didn’t once touch my phone, not especially wanting to see if Catalina had texted or called at any point. 

“…How’d they know I was here?” I ask. 

“I _may_ have informed Miss Artemis when she conveniently asked me just this morning if I could subtly give you a get-well card from her and her family,” Alfred says, smiling a bit. (Oh.) “It appears that she took it upon herself then to round up a whole posse of your friends to come wish you well.” 

I smile, although the expression fades when a dark feeling comes over me. 

“Probably to skin me alive for closing them out for the last month or so, too…” I sigh, passing a hand over my face. 

“If I may, sir,” Alfred tells me gently, “I don’t believe that’s why they’ve come.” 

I shake my head and am quiet a moment before I speak. “…I don’t know how I’m going to face them, Alfred.” 

“It’ll do you good to see them, Master Dick,” Alfred says. 

I pull at the threading in the throw blanket that covers me, and know very well that he’s right. I’ve missed them keenly — yeah, okay, even the discomfort of getting reprimanded over something I’m already nauseatingly ashamed of will be worth it to see them. I nod the okay, and he backs away from the door. 

I lie back, and brace myself to get reamed six ways to Sunday for being a monumental douche and crappy friend. 

Wally appears _poof_ out of the thin air (doubtless having zoomed at Flash speeds through the manor) and immediately busts a dance move. 

“Ding, dong, the witch is dead!” he crows jubilantly. 

And just like that, I doom my stomach by starting to laugh. That wasn’t quite what I expected. “I’m fine, Walls, thanks for asking.” 

He continues to dance. “The Wicked Witch, the mean old witch!” 

I pull a pillow over my face and groan, hearing the sounds of the others’ voices as they filter into the room. 

“Ding, dong, the Wicked Witch is deeeeeaaaad —” 

I pull the pillow down in time to see Artemis smack Wally upside the back of his head. “Sensitive much? Shut it, Walls.” 

“Hey, now, you were totally singing the same thing —” 

“Not in front of him, I wasn’t,” Artemis insists as Isa squeals my name and dislodges her hand from Artemis’ to trundle in a three-year-old’s sprint to my bed. Against my better judgment, I help her up, although it hurts the crap out of my wound site, and pull her readily into a hug, sitting up to accomplish that more comfortably. 

“Ahhhh, it’s an Isa…!” I exclaim, overjoyed, extending my other arm to Iris as she clambers up with us. “Oh, I _missed_ you guys…” 

“You got _kebabbed!”_ Isa says excitedly, bouncing on her knees next to me atop the mattress. 

I laugh when Artemis issues a scandalized, “Isa!” 

My goddaughter slows after a moment, and inclines her head. “What’s _kebabbed?”_

“I don’t think you want to know,” I say, grinning. “It’s _gruesome.”_

She grins wider. “What’s _gruesome?”_

“It means…” I gesture, “ _blood and guts.”_

She gasps, and Iris clambers atop me. 

“Can we _see?”_ she asks, bouncing painfully on my abdomen. 

“Wally,” I say, staring in horror at him, “what in the heck are you teaching your kids?” 

“Come on, girls, lay off your goddad. He’s a little fragile right now,” Artemis says as she immediately approaches my bedside to lean down and wrap all of us up in one big bundle of an embrace. 

“Listen, Dickie,” she murmurs into my ear after a moment, “everyone’s up to speed on everything. Alfred told us downstairs. So you don’t need to worry about talking about it if you don’t want to, okay?” 

I nod, and hug her tighter. I know why Alfred blabbed, ensuring I was no longer in quarantine from loving, caring influences notwithstanding. He knows how I’ve been feeling, listening to me last night as I opened up to him about all that’s happened. He’s aware of just how little I feel like discussing the events that brought me to where I am. Every word spoken about this whole mess is a punch in the injured guts. 

“Thanks, Arty,” I whisper. 

“Don’t worry about it.” She gives me a gentle shake. “ _God,_ on that note, though, Dickie, do you have any idea how _worried_ we’ve all been? Or how much we’ve _missed_ you? We wanted to come see you in the hospital —” 

“But _someone_ made that borderline impossible,” Conner interjects roughly, setting a vase of flowers down on the end table. 

I ignore the pang that lances through my middle, and opt to ignore the implications of that sentence for the time being. I feign smitten joy. 

“Oh, Conner, all my dreams are coming true… lawdy, but I’ve waited for this day since we first met!” I say, fanning my face. Isa giggles at the motion while Iris sits up by me and attacks my PS controller. Wally wrests it from her and admonishes her to ask first. 

Conner huffs one of his gruff chuckles. “What, for my fiancée to bring you flowers?” 

I press a hand to my heart, adopting a wounded expression. “You mean… they’re not… they’re not from you?” 

“Sorry to disappoint you, but no,” he says. 

I act stricken. “You’re breaking my heart, Senpai! What do I have to do to get you to notice me?” 

“Have some roided out monster nail you in the gut with a machete, apparently,” Conner says. “By the way, M’gann’s got some more things for you, too.” 

“It’s just some food, Dick,” she chuckles, coming over and hugging me. “We wanted to do all this for you while you were in the hospital, but we were afraid we’d just make more trouble for you if we ignored… you know, if we just came in unannounced.” 

“And since we are no longer under constraint, we are doing it now,” Kaldur tells me, handing me a corked bottle. “This is a healing brew that Atlanteans have turned to for centuries. It should reduce your recovery time significantly — and on that note, how are you feeling, my friend? It has been a long time since we last saw you — _too_ long.” 

I smile as Isa and Iris both kick back against my shoulder to watch the show Artemis and Wally turned on for them via my Netflix account. _God,_ I missed them — being too busy to see your family as often as you’d like is hard enough, but when you’re _coerced_ into not seeing them, and yes, I’ve accepted that I was under coercion… well, that’s a horse of an entirely different color. 

I accept the bottle. “Thanks, Kaldur — appreciate this. As for how I’m feeling… let’s just say I need to avoid things like laughing and sneezing. But other than that, I’m fine and dandy.” 

“We’ll do our best not to make you laugh, then, although I don’t know what to tell you about sneezing,” Zatanna says, and makes her way over to my bedside, “since… _Srewolf raeppa!”_

I smile when a bouquet in a vase appears _presto_ on my nightstand next to M’gann and Conner’s proffering. Zatanna bends down to kiss my forehead. 

“Oh, I missed your face, Boy Wonder,” she says, thumbing my cheek a bit. 

I reach up and hug her with my free arm, warming all the way through. “Thanks, Z. Missed yours, too.” 

My heart stumbles and goes into an erratic, nervous sprint when Barb rolls up to my bedside, grinning, her eyes sparkling fit to put the sun outside to shame. 

“Hey, there, Babsy — you look pleased,” I say, smiling, ignoring the sudden inrush of nerves. “What —” 

She lifts a book from under her arm, and her grin widens. 

“Oh, God,” I exclaim, nerves forgotten, and take it from her to study the cover. “ _The Ballad of Eskimo Nell: The All-Time Greatest Collection of Bawdy Verse and Dirty Limericks…_ Well, I’m _never_ getting out of bed at this rate, since this thing’s just going to make me bust my stitches and sentence me to a lifetime of bedrest — thanks a _lot,_ Babs.” 

She giggles and leans toward me, and I shift away from the twins long enough to meet her in a tight, prolonged hug. I turn my face into the soft hair that covers her ear, cherishing and taking comfort in its familiar scent, unchanged for all the time I’d known her. 

Barbara. 

My _best friend_ since I was nine years old — how did I go for so long without just _texting_ her, emailing her, hearing her voice on the other end of the line? A pocket of emotion presses at my throat, threatening to open up and pour out its contents. I tighten my hold on her. Now she’s here, after so long kept away, I _never_ want to let go of her. Not for as long as I have breath and strength in my body. 

“Should at least keep you entertained for a while,” she says proudly, not the least bit nonplussed by the protracted embrace. I laugh, ignoring the stitch it causes in my abdomen. 

“Thanks, Barb — seriously,” I murmur into the softness of her hair, sobering. “I’m so glad you came.” 

“Me, too.” She leans back then, and pinches my cheek with a smirk. “Sap.” 

I smile, and relish the feeling when she fusses over my hair and stubble with her fingers. 

“Boy Wonder, you need a shave and a haircut in the worst way,” she proclaims, laughing. 

“Two bits,” I say, reclining again with the twins. 

She inclines her head. “Although… actually, you know what, I kind of love this rugged ranger look you’ve got going on… You look like Strider — all scars and stubble, acquired being badass and manly.” She sits back as I huff a bit of a laugh, and her beautiful eyes sparkle. “Speaking of, you know you have to do the honors, now — we _all_ do when we get a new mark. Pony up, Dickie, let’s see the damage.” 

I groan, but good-naturedly acquiesce. I’m in for the same request when I go back to work in a month or so. Might as well undergo a dress rehearsal with trusted friends. 

There’s a lot of exclamation, as I expected — this is arguably the worst injury I’ve ever acquired, even in all my years as Robin and Nightwing, getting clobbered and stabbed and shot and mutilated and burned and all those other fun things the bad guys like to subject you to. The blade of Blockbuster’s machete was broad — six inches wide — and had plenty of dull points, cleaving through my vest and torso by pure brute force, making the cut anything but clean. It plunged bits of my clothing and vest into the laceration site, which extends from below my navel to just under my rib cage. I was lucky not to get a nasty infection. I turn to show my pals the sutures up my back from the exit wound, as well. (Yikes.) 

“Blockbuster’s going to burn in Hell if there’s any justice, marking up a work of art like that,” Artemis says indelicately, poking gently at the sutures. “At least it wasn’t your derriere.” 

I burst out laughing, and regret it — although I can’t stop. “Ohmigod, Arty —” 

“You know, I _am_ standing right here,” Wally grouses. 

“Oh, as if you don’t agree,” Artemis says playfully. “You’ve _said_ he’s your man crush only a billion times.” 

He laughs, waving his hands. “Fine, I can’t keep any secrets.” 

(I swear to God they are this generation’s Fred and Ethel.) 

“Sorry to break your heart, Walls,” I say, laughing. “Conner over there’s got _my_ man crush ticket.” 

A flurry of joking around follows while the twins look positively intrigued. 

“Does it hurt?” Isa asks, poking curiously at the sutures. Artemis gently pulls her hand away. 

I nod, and give the soft lock of hair at her ear a tug and her cheek a light nudge. “It does. But not as bad as my friend getting hurt would have.” 

I lower my shirt, and M’gann chooses that moment to bust out the amazing spread she brought. As we all tuck in, I find my appetite is better than it’s been in weeks — there went all the added bulk I put on in the month preceding — and eat myself to the point I think my stitches might split. And just like that… the bulk is partly back, I realize humorously. Whoops. (Worth it.) 

The conversation and visit flow easily from this point, all of us just catching up, chatting over life, work, YJ, and so on. The longer they stay, the more soothed and mollified I feel — as though their very presence is a panacea to my wounds, both external _and_ internal. 

I inwardly vow _never_ to let something like this happen again. If I have to become a little more like Bruce — untrusting, reticent, shut off, suspicious — for the first time in my life, well, I’m okay with that. It was my being a golden retriever, always wagging my tail and bringing the newspaper, that landed me here in the first place. Barbara was spot on when she called me out on being too trusting. 

I sigh. I know that Dinah’s right, that I unwittingly compensate for Bruce’s endless mistrust, but I can’t sacrifice the safety of those around me to make up for my foster dad’s shortcomings. Not anymore. Not after this. 

I worry, thinking about Catalina — I worry about her, I worry about those around her, I worry about me and mine — but my hands are bound for the moment. If I move on her right now, I could incriminate myself or give my night job away, make a wreck of Mat’s reputation and career, or worse yet, set Catalina over the edge and _really_ render her a danger to herself or others. Going after her — be that to bring her to justice for murdering Redhorn and Blockbuster’s goon, or to urge her in the direction of direly needed help — could unleash the flood if my efforts fall through for a hundred potential reasons. I know now that I _never_ knew Catalina. She was not the person I thought she was, the person that she presented to me. And _not_ knowing her leaves me facing a nebulous fog, something I can’t shape into any form of action or plan. I don’t want to think that she’d be capable of more than she’s already done — but I know I can’t trust that she isn’t. 

Even so. 

No matter what I think or believe on a logical, more rational level… I _never_ want to see her again. I can’t even bear the idea of seeing her in a crowd from a distance. And acting on this situation risks just that. I’ll have to hope that Mat can take care of her — because as of now, I just can’t do it. 

Barbara has said I need to look after myself, take better care of myself — hell, Catalina herself even said the same, even if _this_ is hardly what she meant— and the fact is, I intend to from here on. And protecting myself means washing my hands of Catalina and just letting her brother look after her, trusting that he can guide her to where she needs to go, that she’ll be open to him and will listen to what he has to say and offer. 

My friends start filtering out around seven, just as I’m wearing down a bit and the godkids are getting cranky. Wally hugs me and surprises me when he does the bro kiss thing on my hair. 

“Ooh, did you see that, Arty?” I crack as I lie back down after hugging him. “Looks like you guys are even.” 

She laughs, hugs me, and kisses my cheek. “Well, now he’s going to have to one-up me again —” 

“No,” Wally interrupts. 

We both laugh, and Arty adds, “Feel better soon, okay? Don’t be a stranger.” 

I nod, thank her, and squeeze her hand as she rounds up the twins once I’ve hugged and kissed them goodbye. 

“And don’t almost die when you’re under the thumb of an evil, lying dictator,” Wally tells me, shaking me a bit by the shoulder. “Scared the shit out of us enough as it was, and it was even worse when that bitch said she didn’t want any of us near you or she’d have us thrown out by security. I hope you get why we didn’t push it, superpowers and all — if she ended up coming across us there or word of it got back to her, we knew you’d be the one who was going to catch it in the ass, and we figured you had it hard enough already.” 

“Sorry, Walls,” I mutter lamely. 

“No need to apologize to anyone, Dick,” Kaldur says. “Just heal quickly now, and we hope to see you back on your feet soon.” 

“And we _mean_ see you,” Zatanna says, hugging and kissing me goodbye. On some dim level, it occurs to me that Catalina would kill her _and_ me if she saw that. “It might not have comparatively gone on for very long, but even a second of that forcible lock-up would have been too long. Over a month was unforgivable.” 

“God, I’m sorry, Z,” I sigh. 

“Dick, please stop apologizing,” M’gann admonishes me gently as she comes up to give me her hug in the hugs goodbye line. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for, okay? And we’re not… We don’t _expect_ you to say you’re sorry for everything, even when you haven’t done anything wrong.” 

“She’s right, by the way,” Conner says. “You’ve been saying you’re sorry every five seconds. Have you even realized that?” 

I blink. “No, actually. Umm… Sorry?” 

He laughs. “Knock that off. We’ll see you soon, okay?” 

I nod. “See you later, Conner. Thanks for coming.” 

As they trickle out of the room, Barbara remains. 

“Is it okay if I stick around for a bit?” she asks when the room is empty, save for us. 

“Of course,” I tell her. I pause, and then just go for it. “…I was hoping you would.” 

She smiles, her cheeks coloring a little. 

There’s a moment of silence, and I sigh. 

“Look,” I say quietly. “I know what you’re going to say.” 

“What am I going to say?” she asks evenly. 

“…That you told me so,” I mutter unhappily. 

She takes my hand, sobering. “No, Dick. That’s not what I’m going to say. I’m not going to say anything, actually — least of all that. But if you want to talk… I _am_ going to listen.” 

I lie in quiet for a while, staring up at the ceiling, still holding her hand. 

Lying here, with my dearest friend at my side, eased by her nearness, comforted by the feeling of her hand in mine, her presence opens the tap inside me — and everything just pours out of me like a rush of water. Like it or not, painful or not — out it comes. 

“I was so stupid, Barbara,” I say. “Just so stupid. How could I have been so _stupid?”_ I lay a hand on my eyes, fighting yet another torrent of tears that threatens to create an ugly monsoon out of my face. 

“You weren’t stupid, Dick,” she says gently. “You just…” She lifts a shoulder. “You only saw what you wanted to see. Because if you looked too close…” She gestures a bit. 

More quiet passes as I dwell on my dark, slowly paddling thoughts. 

“…I just felt so stuck. I couldn’t leave her, not when I thought…” I trail off, and shake my head. “And she knew it, too. She knew it. She knew exactly what to say, when to say it — hell, she even knew _how_ to say it.” I let go a long, heavy sigh. 

Babs nods. “She definitely had your number.” 

The ceiling overhead fuzzes in my vision. I wipe my eyes and nod. “She stage managed me like a damn sock puppet. And I didn’t even _realize_ it, Babs.” Again, I sigh. “I never _once_ picked up on it… or if I did, I totally put my blinders on and ignored the crap out of it. And now I’ve _lost_ something I never even knew I wanted — and somehow without actually _losing_ it. How can you feel the loss of something that never even _existed?”_ I look imploringly over at her, my heart a weighted, ashen lump in my chest. “And so _bad?_ This… God, it feels like I might as well have lost my baby — that I _did_ lose my baby.” 

“It existed to you,” Barbara tells me, passing her thumb over the back of my hand, “for a time. It was _real_ in that time. Of course you’re going to feel that loss — because in a way, you _did_ lose it.” 

I shake my head, and finally, the tears _really_ start coming, hot and slow. 

“How did I end up here?” I ask, my question directed mostly at the ceiling. “How did I _let_ myself end up here? I see some… just some _awful_ relationships when I’m on the job, I never thought _I’d_ be someone who… How did I fail to see it, especially after… watching my parents, and having _that_ amazing relationship as a model? How did I not _know_ better?” Again, I shake my head. “I was just so blind. Weak, stupid, and blind. How could I have been so _blind?”_

Barbara leans toward me. “Listen, babe. This isn’t your fault. Okay? _None_ of this is your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. _Anyone_ can end up in one of those awful relationships. It doesn’t matter how smart, cautious, strong, or independent you are, or how good a relationship your parents had that you observed — it can happen to _anyone._ And… Dick, it happens so slowly sometimes that you don’t even realize it until you’re effectively stuck — just locked in and fully dependent on the person you’re with. The one who’s controlling and abusing you.” 

I sigh. “…I hate that word.” 

“Which one?” 

“Well, both, but… _Abusing._ It didn’t… it didn’t feel like that at the time, you know?” I take a long, shuddering breath. “She was… she was always really _sweet,_ Babs, just… affectionate and nurturing and… never had a mean thing to say to me. And… this is only harder because — _because_ she had so many good points.” I pause. “And… I loved her. I did.” I exhale. “…I loved her.” 

“I know you did, Dickie,” Babs says softly. 

“It sounds strange to say, but… it feels like I lost her, too,” I ask, closing my eyes, and laying a hand on my head. “Even after all she’s done, I feel her loss just as much. I mean… the person I _thought_ I knew is gone. She’s gone.” I pause. “Or she never was. And… that hurts, too.” 

Barbara is quiet a moment, gazing at me. I wipe at my cheeks, keeping my own gaze on the ceiling. 

“You know, setting aside the fact that I’d love to burn her at the stake, I don’t think she was always… _this_ person,” she says after a time. “At this point, it’s almost like she’s one of those donkeys on Pleasure Island — so deep in hell she can’t find any way out, and so she just… integrates. And _stays_ in hell. Because it’s all she knows now.” There’s another spell of silence, and she leans toward me a bit. “And… listen, babe. I’m not going to tiptoe around this. For whatever reason, she saw you as the first good thing to come her way in a long, long time. And she was determined to have you and _keep_ you as such. And when that happens… like, when a person represents something to you that isn’t necessarily _real,_ you don’t see this person as a _person_ anymore. They become like a drug, and it’s a _poisonous_ addiction — she’s cleaving to you now because that’s exactly what you are to her. And… the small fact that she thinks she owns you.” Barbara sighs. “And again, even if I think the solution is to punch her in the face, she needs _help,_ Dick. _Real_ help. And not the kind you can give her — you need to take a back seat on this one and let professionals handle it. If she’s willing.” 

I sigh. “That’s pretty much exactly everything I said to her… and then I referred her to Dinah.” 

Babs squeezes my fingers. “Well, that’s a start.” 

I look over at her, and give her a wet half-smile. “And… her brother said he’d help however he could.” 

“Now we’re talking,” Babs says. She takes my other hand in hers. 

There’s a long, long, _long_ spell of quiet, brimming with one another’s unspoken thoughts. I turn to her, and hold her gaze for a moment. 

“Barbara,” I murmur. 

“Hmm?” 

“…I am so, so, _so_ sorry,” I tell her. 

She shakes her head. “Oh, Dick. Don’t do that, babe.” 

I burst into _real_ tears now, helpless against the outflow, all of the big, wracking sobs I’ve held back since the night I got picked up at RABE now exploding out of me in a pernicious outburst. 

“I _am,_ though, Barbara,” I sob. “I’m so sorry —” 

Babs takes firmer hold of both my hands. “Dick… listen.” She frowns, apparently thinking. “I’m so — so _clinical,_ so _stoic_ sometimes. I get that from my dad… _and_ my mom, too, I guess. Hide your feelings, emote in private, share in private. And for the love of God, don’t cry in front of others… save that for when you’re on your not-so-merry lonesome. Or with the one person you’ve imprinted on as the single human being you show your emotions to.” She gives me a gentle pull, drawing me closer to her, all the way up until I’ve slid from my bed and am on my knees in front of her chair. “Look. I’m not going to encourage _any_ of that here, babe. You’ve been hurt — _really_ hurt. And you have _nothing_ to be sorry for. So…” She leans down as I lay my head in her lap, and wraps her arms around me. She kisses my hair. “You cry as much as you want, okay? And because you’ve been _hurt —_ not because you’re sorry.” 

I shake my head. 

“I am, though, Barbara — _I am,”_ I cry, my shoulders shaking childishly under her hold. “I’m so sorry…” 

“Don’t be,” she whispers. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. None of this was your fault. You didn’t do anything wrong. You were taken advantage of — and _you have nothing to be sorry for.”_ I wrap my arms around her waist, and she gently rubs my back. “It’s okay, sweetheart.” 

I hold onto her all the more tightly, and just let loose into her lap, the feeling of her arms around me keeping me in one piece as everything inside me uncoils like an endless serpent. All the while, I hear her voice as she murmurs soothingly, the sound of her known, cherished voice like a healing balm. I wring myself dry and exhausted, crying myself into a black fatigue that overtakes me like a cumbrous, murky shroud. When I don’t have a single tear left, when my eyes burn so that I can hardly hold them open, I sag heavily into her embrace, my body weak and shaking, not a whit of strength remaining in my spent, ponderous form. And Barbara just holds me, her arms strong and secure around my shoulders, her scent and shape so dear and familiar and _safe._

_I’m home,_ I think muzzily, with a drained, tired relief, _I’m finally, finally home._

I rest here, with Barbara’s arms around me, her fingers stroking my hair every so often, her voice whispering in its comforting cadence. This is my prodigal return, my acceptance back into the embrace of the loved ones I’d walked away from, my absolution and pardon. 

I’m home. 


	19. Fool for Love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HULLO, EVERYBODY...
> 
> A couple of notes, here!
> 
> A. After this (early) update, I'm going to put this story on hiatus for a few weeks! I need a little time to catch up, and I also feel like I need to slow down and reconnect with it a bit on its own. <3 The next arch also gets a little action heavy and starts dipping into some of the darker material from the comics, and I'd really like to do it justice. <3 So I'm going to take a little extra time and dial back on the pace to make sure it's done RIGHT. <3 With life being what it is (kids, work, hard race day training, etc.), if I want this next arch to turn out how I want it to and hope for it to, I'll need to take the extra time. <3 :-)
> 
> B. YES! MANY CHANGES. LOL. Also some repurposed and slightly altered/paraphrased dialogue from our dear Blockbuster, shifted to apply and fit here. The poor unfortunate journalist from the comics doesn't make her way in here to get fridged (lucky her.)
> 
> C. I do not know the name of the compound Catalina swipes--not only was I not the strongest chem student, but I watched a crime documentary series that detailed a case where the chemical in question was used as an effective poison, and since it's a common substance in high school and college chem labs, the narration deliberately did not provide the chemical's name on the show. I'm sure with some research into the same case study I could likely have turned it up somewhere on the Interwebs, but I'd rather do what they did and stay mum--if it's bad enough they won't name it, I probably shouldn't name it within fanfiction, either. <3
> 
> D. Spanish to English as always at the end. :D
> 
> E. Happy reading, y'all, enjoy, and see ya next month! <3 ^_^ Fingers crossed for a good PR on race day! <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF

**CHAPTER 19**

_April 9_

Holy moly, _guapo,_ is it my birthday?! 

I’d say it’s my birthday — but the anniversary of my largely joyless arrival on this planet is not until the end of the month. However, an _unimaginable_ stroke of luck just fell on me — a serendipity so enormous it’s as though the universe gift-wrapped it and plunked it in my lap. Apparently, I’ve at last licked the right cosmic asscrack _somewhere._

I had fully intended to poison Roly-Poly’s dear mother — I have a good knowledge of toxins and how they work on the human body, good enough that I’m certain even the infamous Cheshire could quiz me and I’d get a passing grade. And having a background in the FBI means I know which compounds are less traceable, less known, less commonly tested for. The general idea as I set out mapping my plan of attack was to use a nice, untraceable, heart attack-inducing chemical to speed up Ms. Desmond’s dying process — which has already been ongoing, anyway — and then somehow implicate you in her demise to Blockbuster. Be that by hamming up the fact that his impending trial — which was _your_ doing and he totally blames you for — stressed Mommy Dearest’s already struggling ticker into full-blown failure (in Roland’s mind, your fault), or even by indicating that you yourself poisoned her because Blockbuster dared delay your shot at the detective’s exam and thereby may have cost you your shield (undeniably your fault.) Oh, and by the way, Roland, little Dickie Grayson, who’s behind your mama’s death, is none other than the vigilante Nightwing! Either way, the very concept of you being in _any_ way or by _any_ stretch responsible for his precious mother dying will drive him way the hell off the deep end. 

But lo and behold, the old bat might very well have just up and bit it herself. All of her own accord. No intervention or expedition necessary. _¡Afortunada por mi!_ She sure did me one hell of a favor. Now all I have to do is say the right things — something I conveniently happen to be marvelously good at. I about fall off my couch, rattling with full-bodied laughter. 

I get it together and watch the repeatedly rerun news feed with a more appropriate somberness, focusing on the official footage of you, studly as ever in your police uniform, _tu bonbon,_ performing CPR on Madame Desmond’s unmoving, busted form as the whole scene awaited EMS. It’s replayed time and again. Roland’s mother is known to the Haven, considering her monetary means that are significant by any standard (and especially Blüdhaven’s), the high-profile case of her crime lord son, and the fact that she bailed his dangerous _culo_ out of jail. “A Mother’s Deadly Love,” it’s been called by some journalists, referring to her devotion to her notoriously brutal and offensively deformed offspring. And no one on the stream is making any bones about the fact that Blockbuster nearly killed you during the bust that officially landed him in the legal hot seat in the first place — and yet there you are, valiantly fighting to save his mother’s life while awaiting EMS. As is your wont, well-known to those around you — if you beat EMS to a dire scene, you can always be counted on to perform first aid and/or CPR. Like a true hero. 

More replays filter into the feed, these the ones that came later, and I watch in satisfaction as dear Ms. Desmond is loaded onto a stretcher and placed in an ambulance, along with a handful of other unfortunate motorists who sustained injuries due to her heart failure in traffic. You are visibly upset (advertising one’s emotions is not good for a cop, _cariño…_ one thing I will agree with Barbara on is that you are indeed in the wrong profession), declining to comment when the press converges on you. Gannon guards you from those sharks as you make your way back to your parked cruiser. 

It’s not even ten minutes before the news reveals that Blockbuster’s mother is confirmed dead. _Muerta._ Gone for good. 

Cause of death? _A fucking heart attack._

Oh, _el Jesucristo,_ my birthday _and_ Christmas came early. The old witch just saved me an assload of work by not only precipitately croaking, but by helpfully opting to die in the area of your patrol. The saints, apparently, are on my side — I have lit candles _every day_ since you left me, praying for all of the cards to fall into the right places for me as I devised my stratagems and plans, and here they are. Stacking up as though they have me, and only me, in mind. The powers that be were even thoughtful enough to save me a giant series of steps that would have proven difficult to time and navigate if moved by mortal hands, rather than by the hand of fate. It’s kismet, _cariño._ Meant to be. 

Oh, _mi querido,_ it’s time. It’s finally, finally time. I am going to take you back — for once and for all. 

I give it a while before reaching for the burner phone. I will _need_ to give it at least some hours, even if I’m bursting out of my skin in my impatience. So I just do some light housework in the meantime, piddling with some meal prep for Mat’s habitual Monday visit later this evening (why he insists on checking on me every week like a condescending asshole, I’ll never know — the traitor just accepted an invitation to your goddamn impending wedding, for Christ’s sake), and then folding some laundry. Just stupid, doldrummy things, tasks to pass the time and keep busy. Once that’s all (finally) complete, I dial Roland. 

He answers, apparently recognizing my burner number, audibly furious and distraught as he barks, “What, Tarantula? The last I checked, you underwent quite the volte-face and jumped ship straight into bed with Nightwing. Why are you calling _me_ today of all days — _the day of my mother’s passing?”_

Good. Hopped up on emotions. This will be too easy. 

I speak into the phone. 

And then I meet poor, grieving Roland at a secluded spot on Byke Beach half an hour following. He was willing to meet me on such short notice because I informed him that I have information about his mother’s death that might be of interest to him. And he bit at that bait like a starving fish. _Tan fácil._

“Well, come out with it, then,” he sharply says the second I make my way up to him along the shore beneath the overhanging rocks. “Don’t play games, don’t beat around the bush — just tell me what you know.” 

“I wouldn’t dream of beating around bushes, Roland — you know, unless they’re mine,” I say, tilting my head, enacting the role of sympathetic friend and applying just enough flirtation to be tempting and lower his guard a bit without coming off as malapropos (last I checked, the brute _does_ still have a penis.) “I’ll only ever be straight with you, you know that.” 

No dice. He remains hard as a mountainside. Lunkheaded monk. “Then talk.” 

“Well, you know I spent some time working with Nightwing.” 

“Obviously,” he states unfeelingly. 

I nod. “Interesting that he was off the grid for some weeks, wasn’t it? And then he just randomly showed up on the streets again?” 

“I _said_ not to beat around the bush,” Roland snaps. “Just tell me what it is you want to tell me, Flores, so that I may take it or leave it as I see fit. This had just better not be wasting my time or I’ll squash your pretty head.” 

“No need for violence, Rolls, jeez — but fine, have it your way. Just brace yourself.” I pause for dramatic emphasis. “You _are_ aware that Nightwing is none other than Corporal Richard Grayson of the Blüdhaven Police Department, aren’t you — the same officer you impaled on a machete back in January, and the same officer who failed to resuscitate your mother just this morning?” 

There is a long, long pause, punctuated by the sounds of the surf, wind, and gulls. Roland barely reacts, standing across from me with his arms crossed, the spring sunlight misty and hazy on his slab face. 

“I have had suspicions,” he tells me. “Witnessing Grayson in combat made it very apparent that he is hardly an average officer of the law, my first clue — and my certainty grew when Nightwing failed to make an appearance after I injured him. However, given the state of things, I haven’t found what you’d call a reasonable opportunity to confirm my conjectures — I haven’t even opted to make it a priority.” He shakes his head. “But I must say… oh, I knew it. The boot certainly fits.” 

“Yes, it does,” I concur. 

“Tell me, did Nightwing himself make you aware of his civilian identity while you cavorted around the Blüd with him?” 

“Yes,” I reply. “He was my lover, after all. I wanted to marry him. He told me all sorts of things.” 

Another long pause as Blockbuster eyes me impassively, his brutish face unreadable. 

“So… the long and short of what it is you’re telling me… is that my archenemy in this terrible, wonderful city, the great and mighty Nightwing, the hero cop Richard Grayson… failed to save my mother’s life this morning,” he states, his tone that of one who’s had a magnificent epiphany. 

I nod. “That is indeed the long and short of it. All that he can do, Roland, all of his skills and talents, all of his accomplishments… and yet he didn’t save your mother. She needed a hero today, didn’t she — _and he didn’t save her.”_

Desmond draws in a breath, and looks out over the water, which shifts lazily against the beach, lapping back and forth, a murky green-brown in the sun. 

“I knew that I underestimated you, _hero,”_ he murmurs, clearly no longer talking to me, in keeping with an obnoxious habit of his lapsing into a random soliloquy directed at the subject of his thoughts. He’s now begun to speak to you, never mind that you aren’t present to hear him. “And I am not — and was never — happy about that. You _are_ the equal of your mentor… but even you cannot save every life. You cannot right every wrong. And my mother… my mother paid the ultimate price for your failings. Your shortcomings. Your inabilities.” 

A thrill goes through me. There’s my cue. 

“Maybe any other officer could have saved her, Roland,” I interject. “Maybe on some unconscious level, whether he realized it or not… Dick just didn’t _want_ to save her.” 

Roland turns his gaze back to me from the water. 

I continue. “Not to mention… he started this whole thing, in his way — I mean, the stress of your upcoming trial has been hell on your mother’s already failing heart, hasn’t it? And _Dick_ is the one who got that particular ball rolling when he busted your people at Elbows back in January. In so many ways… even if it wasn’t conscious, or deliberate… Dick Grayson is the one responsible for this. He _caused_ this.” 

“Yes,” Roland agrees. “Yes. But tell me something, Tarantula. What purpose do you have in bringing this up to me? What interest could you possibly have in giving Nightwing away, when he supposedly was your ally and bedmate?” 

“You’re my former employer and friend — and I know what your mother meant to you,” I say, affecting a gentle demeanor. “She was everything to you, huh? Your whole reason for being — what drove you, what motivated you, what gave you purpose.” 

“…And?” He gestures. “What does it matter to you, Catalina — months after you went turncoat? Please. Enlighten me. What is your own motivation, here? I know damn well that it’s hardly out of the goodness of your heart or any sort of compassion or tenderness you might feel for me.” 

I hold his gaze a moment. 

“Well, you’re… partially right,” I say. “It isn’t _just_ out of compassion for you — although I promise you that played a role in my coming here. But… it’s also for myself, Roland. You see, Nightwing, Dick… he destroyed _me._ When I needed him the most, he broke my heart into a thousand pieces and _left_ me, Roland. I gave him _everything_ — and he threw me out in the cold with _nothing._ He _abandoned_ me like I was an unwanted dog.” I cross my arms, and bitterly add, “What a hero. But I guess even his type isn’t above acting like a typical bastard man — always happy to make you feel like you’re special, that you mean something _real_ to them, that what you have together is the real thing… all so they can get their dicks wet. And then they just leave you behind when the next hot ticket comes along and you no longer serve them any purpose.” 

He eyes me, impassive, although his eyes flicker with increased interest. “So you are essentially after your own brand of vengeance — exacted for yourself, and for the fact that he left you. Scorned you.” He shakes his head, a dark smirk now coming over the rocky ledges of his face. “Hell hath no fury…” 

“It’s not so simple. Dick… _es un hijo de puta el cabrón._ And he’s the absolute worst — because he _plays_ at being different, and really believes he is, while he’s just as bad as the rest of them. And I want to _hurt_ him like he hurt me. He took away everything from me — and he can’t give any of it back. My life, my heart, my spirit, _que demonios —_ my _self… he took it all._ In its own way… that’s murder, isn’t it?” 

There’s a pause — brief, but brimming. 

“In his way… he took your mother,” I continue grimly, “and he took my life.” I angle toward Roland ever so slightly. “He took _everything_ from us, Roland. So… what are we going to do about it?” 

Desmond’s arms lower, and he holds my gaze, his eyes flickering with determination and rage. 

“I propose that we take him down together,” he says, “and we make him _suffer._ Everything he cares for, every loved one, every single thing that was ever important to him — we destroy. All his friends and family rent limb from limb, all of them burned until they’re little more than a pile of ash. Even strangers he makes small talk with on the street won’t be safe. Even the man he buys his bread from or shakes hands with on the job will be marked for death.” He breaks for a brief moment. “I won’t stop. I’ll _never_ stop. Not until he’s the only one standing, surrounded by a pile of dead bodies and burned out cinders. _I will not stop._ And when he stands alone, everything around him demolished, nothing left for him, not a thing, not even a speck of dust… then we destroy _him._ And we make it last. We make him bleed and cry and _beg_ before we finally gut him like the pig he is.” 

Ha. If only Roland knew what I _really_ have planned. 

I hold out my hand. He grasps it, the surface of his palm dwarfing mine, his skin rough and scratchy. We shake. 

“Accepted,” I state. “You know where — and how — to find me.” 

With that, we part ways in concurrence of reaching each other soon. 

Walking along the streets of Blüdhaven to make my way home, I fight the smile that presses at my lips. 

I told Roland exactly the words that will put the next stage of my plan into perfect motion. I knew that he would be an easy, easy play. He may be a genius, _cariño —_ but he is a comfortably open book, and he is grieving. He already can be rash, unthinking, emotionally driven, even without the cloud of grief distorting things around him. Not unlike you. Perhaps that is why the two of you are such natural enemies — opposite sides of the same coin. Either way, I repeat. _Tan fácil._

And just as I knew, just as I planned, Blockbuster will wage a war of attrition on you — and all I have to do is nod, agree, step back, and allow him to go on his rampage as he will. And when the fires of that war have consumed all of your loved ones and cherished things, then he will, as he just promised, come for you. As he himself said, to make you suffer. To make you bleed. To _end_ you as you gasp your last, choking plea. 

And with my own hands clean of these crimes, my own involvement entirely unknown to you, I will step in front of you. I will guard you. I will betray him and destroy him for you. I will mete out the justice that you seek. I will save your life, Dick — astricting you to me in a life debt, establishing my role to you as your champion, as the one who was _there_ in your penultimate moment of need. Your hero. Your _caballera blanca._

And I will bind you to me in that moment, take you and fuse with you, our love a phoenix that will rise from the spoiled ashes of your toxic former life. My body, my heart, my breath, all of my essence will be yours, and yours mine. And _mi amor,_ I will give you a new life, a new journey, a new future — and I will dry the tears that you release, the flux a purging of everything that was, the outflow to make way for all that is new and better. We will walk forward together into our waiting tomorrow, as one forever after. 

And it all starts here. 

I walk home through the mild warmth of the spring afternoon, appreciating the sight of the pristine clouds overhead, the first peeping colors of the trees in earliest bloom. I love this time of year, the scent of the damp earth as it springs from beneath its snowy cocoon, the soft, balmy feel of impending rains and gentle sunshine, the sweet whispers of blossoms, grass, and new life. It’s the perfect time for us to start over, I think, as I reach up and trail my fingers along the waxen, dew-kissed leaves of the ever premature magnolias. I inhale the mellow air, all at once nothing but full of pleased anticipation at what the future holds. 

I’m not even particularly concerned about the fact that you and that _bruja_ Barbara have elected to shack up together, and in your former apartment, no less. Hank wasn’t able to lease it in your absence, and since he’s as fond of you as he is, he was all too happy to forgive your abrupt lease cancellation and have you back with your re-fiancée at the first opportunity. 

Truly, _querido,_ you wasted no time. She put your ring back on her finger within _three weeks_ of our little spat, and you’ve even set a date for the end of the summer. You have a venue — none other than the gardens at Wayne fucking Manor. _Lo siento,_ but I must laugh. Pretentious, much? And here I thought you were above this commercial “Bride’s Big Day” garbage. Artemis, M’gann, and the gaggle of other little twit friends have taken Barbara dress shopping, and Artemis gave her the sash from her own gown. (Why? It’s not like anyone is going to see it.) 

I can’t help but snicker a little over the whole thing. Well, feeling vengeful and determined to triumph, are you? Still, your feeble efforts at revenge and your plays at making yourself feel as though you are the victorious one of the two of us are quite laughable, considering that dear Barbara and the fact that she is living _my_ life will not be an issue for much longer. 

I make it home, and start the first stage of cooking the tamales I prepped earlier. When I find a moment for a break, I recline on my couch, opening my laptop to watch you, hear you, see you, _connect_ with you in whatever way I can. 

I repositioned the cameras within your apartment — another painstaking feat performed some weeks ago at remarkable speed while you were at work and Barbara was across the street at the shopping plaza. She recently took a job at Blüdhaven U, taking over teaching courses when a professor suddenly quit, and heading up the library, but it took her a week or two to nail it down. Impatient, I had to wait for the first opportunity that she was out of the place, and her little foray into the flower shop across the way to get some plants for the windowsills was the best one. I was barely able to keep any form of tabs on you while you were still loafing at your foster dad’s heavily locked down establishment — the place is more like a prison than a mansion, all a picture of total security, every last inch of that expansive place monitored and battened down. No way was I sneaking cameras in there without detection, and there wasn’t much that I would see with two cameras in such an enormous mansion, anyway. You never stay in one place for long. What an awful time that was for me, _cariño_ — I was at last thrilled after weeks of misery to discover through grueling, old-fashioned sleuthing that you were returning to your old home base. _Gracias a Dios._ It would be easy-peasy from there, all of my grinding vindicated. 

It’s just past five in the evening, meaning you’re just coming home from your shift. Babs is piddling with tea in the kitchen, and apparently, she saw the news this morning. She readily opens her arms the second you come through the door, and you go plunk to your knees in front of her, accepting her vacuous embrace and laying your head in her lap. I snort. What a joke. You need more than a lame, empty hug after the day at work you’ve just had. Where is the full-body massage that she _should_ be giving you? I listen in as you talk, your voice low and sad, hers attempting compassion (and failing.) 

What a difference the last months have made. You’ve been back at work with the BPD for a few weeks now (heralded as a hero upon your return), and you’ve even resurrected Nightwing — back to patrolling the streets, abusing your barely healed body, and spreading yourself too thin with renewed zeal. Monstrous Barbara is there to back you up digitally as Oracle (for whatever good she does.) Your detective’s exam has been shunted to some time in the undetermined future to give you a more appropriate recovery window, and you’re studying vigorously and with all the devotion of a passionate neophyte to take the thing. In essence, back to your old life — the insipid one that left you so dissatisfied, so unhappy, so lonely. 

I can’t help but notice that when Barbara quizzes you on the material you study, she takes verbal jabs at you every fifteen seconds, spouting off at you about everything and anything that she can think of. And she does that every second of every day otherwise, too. I shake my head, and repeat my ages old question — how can you stand her? 

I’m sure she thinks she’s just being flirtatious and silly. In reality, she’s being downright cruel — and the manifestation of the anti-love that you think you deserve. You know, Dick, this goes beyond accepting the love you feel you’ve earned. I think you _like_ to be abused. 

_Mi amor._ I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again. You deserve better. Better than that _bruja,_ better than the beasts around you, better than your thankless job and soul-draining existence. Your life is almost vampiric — sucking the essence from you as a fruit bat drains a flower of its nectar. 

But Dick… you were happy with me, weren’t you? You were. Of course you were. I _know_ that you were. And oh, _querido,_ you deserve _that_ life again — not this farce full of punishment and deprivation. 

Well. It will all be over soon. Really, there isn’t much for me to do now, except to wait. So I shut the laptop, and apply myself to the meal I’m preparing… and _wait._

xxxxx 

_One Week Later_

Blüdhaven University’s Sciences Department seems as likely a place as any to find what I seek, and recent budget cuts have rendered the place pathetically securityless. _Perfecto._ I break in through a window at maybe two on a Sunday morning, dressed comfortably in leggings, Chucks, and a hoodie, like a student. I have an ancient wig from my FBI days pulled tidily over my scalp, a beanie tucked over that, hazel contacts fitted in my eyes. I’ve lost a significant amount of weight since I last saw you — an unintended added disguise bonus. If I’m found out or stopped, I’ll cry that I’m a student from Gotham U, raiding this place on a dare. I thankfully have retained enough youth in my late twenties that I can still convince malleable guards that I am, in fact, in college, and none of my falsified features (which are Hollywood levels of effective) will link me to my identity. 

Best not to get caught at all, however. 

I move slowly, cautiously through the halls, attuned to the sounds of potential company in the form of janitors, although this floor appears scrubbed and all of the lights are off — solid indicators that I remain solo on this level. My eyes are adjusted to the darkness as I seek the school’s chemistry labs. There are no security cameras, and no signs of them. And I only need a small amount of what it is I seek — this visit will leave no footprint, no hint at all that I was ever here. 

I find a lab room that appears promising, the blinds pulled halfway down its windows to the hall, the lower half of the exposed panes revealing messes of tables, Bunsen burners, sinks, vials and other equipment within. A locked unit of shelving, revealed in the moonlight from the far window that opens to the outside, surely holds my quarry. 

I make my way into the room with the lockpicking kit, and by use of the same tools, raid the hell out of those locked supply cabinets. 

Bingo. 

I overturn the canister from the very back of the cupboard into the little vial I’ve brought along with me, barely taking a few pinches — really, all I need, and arguably more. 

This small amount would be enough to do quite a job on even your beloved Zitka, Dick. It was, in fact, the same compound I intended originally to obtain and use on Blockbuster’s mother. Attainable but uncommon, and exceptionally difficult to trace due to its rarity as a murder weapon. _Perfecto._ I half smile, corking and pocketing the vial, satisfied. I carefully replace the canister exactly as I found it, turned ever so slightly cockeyed in the very back of the shelf, just touching its shelfmate. Then, I lock the cabinet, and the door to the room behind me. Exiting the building by the window, I close and jimmy the lock back into place, and keep to the cover of the poorly maintained bushes and trees in the garden that runs along the side of the building. 

Next step. 

I leave the campus, comfortably scaling the fence (there _are_ security cameras here, and I have to time my climb accordingly), and by way of an anonymous vehicle that Roland’s people have provided, I make my way up to Gotham and Haly’s Circus camp, where they reside in their off hours between performances. I do not use the car anywhere near the camp itself — too risky and recognizable — but hoof it from where I’ve parked by the waterfront. 

The circus, this same one that you own, is on tour, its current stop landing it in your old motherland of Gotham City. You’ve retired from performance, and have made no promises to Jack that you will be able to frequent the circus even as a patron — busy schedule and all, so sorry, next time, you swore — but all of that is about to change in a few days’ time. 

You must be guaranteed to be there — schedule and retirement be damned. And… Well, _precioso,_ there is one surefire way to go about ensuring that. 

This place has _no_ security, I realize humorously as I approach the trailer I seek. There’s not even a whiff of a wakeful human nearby, let alone any sort of guard detail. The lock on the trailer door is easy to break into with the lockpicking kit, and within a moment, I’ve silently bought my way into the little mobile home that houses none other than the acrobats that have taken over the trapezist act in your own retirement. Irving and Alyssa. I make sure to wipe down and dry the bottoms of my mostly treadless shoes, just as I did before I entered Blüdhaven U — little will be left in the way of actual footprints. Neither denizen is in the trailer — they are off at morning training. In the afternoon, there will be rehearsals for the weekend’s performance. 

Except the act will be down a man by that time. 

I’ve spent a great deal of time over the last few days in Gotham, surreptitiously observing Irving’s habits per Roland’s direction (not that he needed to tell me — I could smell what he was stepping in from the moment he opened his mouth as we discussed our options.) Every morning, the compact, well-muscled acrobat goes through the rigmarole of AM training, and immediately after, eats a breakfast of overnight oats that Alyssa religiously makes for him each night prior, along with a container of yogurt and an orange. He washes it all down with a cup of coffee. Every. Damn. Morning. _Mierda._

But these habits make him an easy, easy target. 

I upend the vial into the little mason jar of pre-made overnight oats I find in the little fridge, replace the lid, and give it a little shake in one gloved hand. _Excelente._

After his breakfast, Irving will become ill. _Deathly_ ill. And he will get sicker, and sicker, and sicker — until his heart and systems fail him completely. There is a strong possibility that the man will even die. But even if he doesn’t kick the bucket, he will at best have a long, long road to recovery ahead of him — with no chance of performing any time in the near future. (And not a soul will be able to trace the source of his mystery illness — not even the savviest forensic pathologist.) 

And you know what they say… the show must go on. 

The trapeze act is what puts food in the mouths of the circus family, what pays for the care of the circus’ lone animal — your beloved childhood pet of sorts, the aforementioned elephant Zitka (and _that’s_ why your favorite animal is an elephant.) It is the circus’ bread and butter, its lifeblood, its livelihood. All else brings in mere pocket change. 

They simply _cannot_ afford to refund all those tickets if they were to cancel the show. The resultant bad publicity alone would be a blow that even you might not be able to rectify or sustain with your substantial means. A stand-in will have to be called — and who better to fit the bill as alternate than the last Flying Grayson himself? 

And as you can always be counted on… you will hear the call for help, and you will drop everything to respond to it — Pavlov’s Dog. You will not allow your cherished circus to go under. You will step up, and you will drop everything, and you will fill Irving’s place. You will do the noble thing, the heroic thing. And you _love_ performing, Dick. And you miss it. One part of you will pleasure at the opportunity to get back up on the wires, whatever misfortune brought the chance your way. 

If this goes according to plan, and it _will,_ since like it or not, _querido, I know you,_ the circus will see a house packed to the gills, all of the spectators thrilled to witness the remaining original high-flyer back on the trapeze. In fact, _more_ last minute tickets will be sold once you’re billed as the performer. And your friends being who they are… let’s suffice it to say that a great deal of them will be along for the ride to show their love and support, both for you and your circus family, and to wish poor Irving well. And they will want to cheer you on as you sing your heartsong on the wires and keep the circus’ lifeblood flowing. 

And as the show goes on… the flames will go up. 

But don’t worry, _querido._ _You_ will not be consumed by them. It is not Blockbuster’s intention for you to die in this. Not yet. Rather… he wishes for you to _suffer._ For you to hurt. For you to despair. For you to helplessly watch those around you as they melt and burn and crumble into soot — none of them within your saving reach, all of them the unlucky casualties of this war. The war that, in his mind, you started. 

It is _my_ intention for the toxic influences that you endlessly retain by your side, the ones that have damned us to this insensate separation and unjustly have kept you from me, to burn to ash in the flames, perish in the fire, go up in smoke. I want to see them consumed in the conflagration, _eaten_ by it until nothing remains — just you, alive and free, unbound and surrounded by the rubble of your former captors. Ready to be emancipated. Ready to be taken. Ready for _me._

Yes. Innocents other than your barbarian friends will die. More innocents will be injured. And more still will be scarred forever, bodily and emotionally. It’s regrettable, Dick — but all’s fair in love and war. And while it seems a foolish sacrifice… well, what can I say, _cariño._ I am just a fool for love. 

I ensure all is as I left it in the trailer, not a thing even the remotest bit out of place, check for potential eyewitnesses, and finding none, lock the door behind me. And off I go into the predawn darkness, my nerves singing with anticipation. 

I contact Roland with an update when I reach the parked vehicle, and a grim glimmer of satisfaction goes through me at his response. 

_Be ready to firm up with Firefly, then, Tarantula,_ it reads. _Next step… be ready to wire the base of operations._

I smile, and send a reply: _KABOOM._

T-minus five days. 

I pocket the burner phone, slide into the car, and wholly assured now that all will unfold according to plan, drive off into the early morning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Afortunada por mi: Lucky for me (f)  
> Culo: Ass  
> Muerta: Dead  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie, babe  
> Mi querido: My darling/dear  
> Tan facil: So easy  
> Es un hijo de puta el cabron: Is a son of a bitch-bastard  
> Demonios: Hell  
> Caballera blanca: White knight (f)  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Bruja: Witch  
> Lo siento: Sorry  
> Gracias a Dios: Thank God  
> Perfecto: Perfect  
> Precioso: Precious  
> Mierda: Shit  
> Excelente: Excellent


	20. Fuego

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all!! <3 ^_^
> 
> I am baaaaaccckkkkk!! :D (At probably the least convenient time for everybody, Friday night, ha ha!) XD WELL MAYBE YER LIKE ME AND HAVE NO LIFE MINUS CHILLIN AND PLAYIN LITTLE NIGHTMARES WITH YOUR FIRSTBORN CHILD AND SPOUSE AND BROTHER-IN-LAW FFFFTTTT
> 
> This was the chapter from HELL, and that's all I'm going to say about it. It passed part-time beta inspection (main beta is still on vacay), but I wonder if that just might be because there's so much crap in it that only in retrospect will all of the flaws that are doubtless there become clear. :P (Ha ha, sorry, bestie, I swear I have faith in you!) I'm tired of looking at this godforsaken thing at this point, SO ENJOY :D :D :D :D
> 
> *DEADPOOL 2 VEILED SPOILER, READ WITH DISCRETION*
> 
> Just saw Deadpool 2 the other night and realized its opening is a little reminiscent of this one's opening... Well, don't worry, for those who have also seen it -- the opening scene of this chapter is not the same manner of flag. XD Just meant to illustrate Dick and Babs' present closeness in spite of everything--it's a closeness they'll need later. <3
> 
> *END SORTA SPOILER*
> 
> All my love, folks! <3 ^_^ Happy reading!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 20**   


“…How did I get you?” 

My voice is embarrassingly sappy even to my own ears, and Barbara’s brows lift. She snorts inelegantly and shakes the red waves of hair from her face. 

“Seriously, what do you see in me?” I ask, chuckling now. I brush her hair behind her ear. “I mean, you’re always laughing at me.” 

“Well, maybe that,” she offers, grinning, her eyes twinkling in the lamplight. 

I grin back, and kiss her, her lips soft under mine, her breath warm and sweet. 

It all feels so surreal — but in a _good_ way this time. 

It wasn’t long before Barbara and I shifted from the tentative, deliberately reserved, innominate somethingship that we found ourselves in post-Catalina and into where we are now — enthusiastically re-engaged, and not only that, but with a date set, a venue secured (thanks for letting us use the manor’s gardens, Bruce), invitations sent out, flowers picked, photographer booked, a deejay hired… Not to mention we’re living together for the first time in our nigh decades long relationship, and working the “night shift” side by side, in perfect tandem, just with a seamless connection, perfect comfort, and total trust. In my old apartment, fun fact, the old Spartan base of operations that’s begun to feel like a real _home._

It’s been _everything_ I’ve sought — without even realizing it. 

I had asked Barbara, always the logical, practical, sensible one, if she felt it was too soon or if we were rushing into things, considering all that had happened, but she had readily shaken her head and said absolutely not. 

“We were already on this path, Dick,” she assured me as she placed a stamp on the final invitation. “We just got… well, _forcibly derailed_ for a few weeks. Think of this as picking up where we left off.” 

I smiled as I gathered up the pile of envelopes. “I love you, Barb, you know that?” 

She looked up at me with her beautiful smile, handing me the last one. “I love you, too, Boy Wonder.” 

And here we are, anxiously waiting for the date to come, both of us drawing Xs over each day on the demotivational quotes calendar that hangs in the kitchen and starting each morning off by stating how many remain. 

Speaking of. 

“Mmm, it’s after midnight,” Babs murmurs, smiling and resting her chin on her arms, which are comfortably folded atop my bare chest. “Roughly a hundred more sleeps until the final day.” 

I laugh. “Is that what we’ll say the morning of? _Doooong…_ Dawn of the Final Day.” 

She giggles and kisses me. “Hmm. Yep — and Skull Kid can officiate.” 

We keep kissing, each one and every touch increasing in fervor. Again, it seems a little fast, this headlong plunge back into intimacy, given that the last person I opened myself up to like this used my body and faith as tools to maintain a goddamn _lie,_ but the time spent on pelvic rest with Barbara’s steady, soothing presence always by my side proved good medicine — salving all the wounds of that betrayal bit by bit with each day that passed. And by the time Skagle gave me the okay to get banging, Barbara and I could barely keep our hands off each other. Even if all that touching hasn’t evolved into full-blown _sex,_ let’s just say I’ve had a year’s worth of handies and oral, and dished my own share of nipplegasms — and it’s been _amazing._ She communicates to me that I’m loved and accepted, that I’m _worthy_ of that love and acceptance. After all my failings, all my fuck-ups, all my missteps, I felt better fit for a life spent at the whipping post — but Barbara just unhesitatingly opened her arms and enveloped me in them, offering me total grace and pardon. And as of now, I’m ready to close the door on what was, and just move forward. 

It’s still a balancing act, my life, but I’m navigating it much more effectively these days. Live and learn, they say — and I crammed probably a decade’s worth of living and learning into little more than a month and a half. But I _did_ learn, and I have made requisite efforts to _fix_ the giant mess that my personal life has been for the past year. Barbara and I have made it a point to drop in on Wally and the girls every Sunday afternoon, and to get into YJ team-ups at least bi-weekly, since they’re the readiest excuse to “spend time” with our friends (I guess with our lives being what they are, we have a very weird idea of what constitutes quality time with pals.) We’ve also made a habit of having dinner at the manor every Wednesday evening before respective patrols, with Jason and Tim joining every so often. And since Jay and Gannon are blossoming, that means my partner is also often in tow on these Wednesday dinners — triple bonus. I’ve seen more of Jason and Tim over the last weeks than I have in years and Gannon has solidly established himself as right up there with Walls as far as my BFFs go, on _and_ off the job. 

(Again. I just _try_ not to worry about how Gannon will react if — and when — he finds out about Jason’s night job, which at this point all of us have opted to turn a half-blind eye to.) 

In some ways, I guess the larger effect that Catalina had on my life, for all it was a traumatic upheaval and a beautifully dressed nightmare, turned things out for the better, forcibly getting me on the right path after I spent the better part of a year stumbling around in the woods. And since she’s laid low and Mat’s had no bad reports on that front, I’m guessing it did the same for her. I don’t wish anything ill on her now — I just hope she winds up in a better place than she was, and is able to heal and find her own happiness. Even if neither of us is poisonous on our own, we were nothing but toxic to each other — the worst possible combination of human beings in nature that came together at likewise the worst possible time, the equivalent of two combustibles subjected to an inrush of oxygen. 

Anyway, for now, life’s good. Man, it sure didn’t take long to get here, flying high and finding myself full of joy and unbridled optimism every morning my alarm goes off. And I intend to ride this high for as long as it will last — and I plan on _making_ it last. 

Starting now. 

I shift positions, gently turning Barbara to her back and angling over her, covering her lips with mine, filling my hands with her breasts through the cotton of her shirt. She hums happily, smiling against my mouth, lifting her chest into my touch. Her own hand snakes down my abdomen, her fingers brushing the mark from Blockbuster’s machete and teasing the skin beneath my navel. Her palm finally slides over the erection rapidly gaining traction in my boxers. When I grunt in response, she obligingly gives me a squeeze. I pass one hand beneath her shirt, sneak it under the wire of her bra, press gently. She releases a soft moan, her breath feathering softly over my lips. 

“Dick,” she whispers. 

“Babs,” I murmur, lifting a bit, and smiling down at her. 

I pause when I see she looks serious, her brows furrowed slightly, her eyes intense, her lips closed. 

“What is it?” I query, stroking her hair. 

She does the same, brushing a tress of hair behind my ear. “I don’t really know how to say this gracefully…” 

“Uh, oh…” 

She chuckles. “No, no. It’s nothing bad, babe.” She lays a hand on my face, her palm warm and smooth, scented with the fruity lotion she’s favored since her teens and _still_ takes me back on a nostalgic trip to the tenth grade and Mathletes meetings after school. “I… _would_ like to apologize before I say this, since there’s no way to say it without sounding like I’m trapped in an unfortunate Harlequin Romance novel phase. But…” 

I lean into her palm as she thumbs my cheek, her eyes never leaving mine. 

“Dick… I want you… to make love to me,” she says, and then abruptly wrinkles her nose. “…Ugh. That sounded even worse out loud.” 

I barely notice her discomfiture, since my cock just enthusiastically channeled the heart of the Grinch and grew two sizes. 

“That did _not_ sound worse,” I say, covering her hand with mine, and kissing her palm. There’s a slight tremor in my voice. “But… Barb… are you _sure?”_

“I’m sure,” she says, smiling when I run a hand over her hair. “I mean… What’s the worst that can happen?” 

We both snort a bit. 

“I hate that phrase,” I say, smiling back. 

“I know you do,” she says. “But… hon, we’ve already been through the worst, haven’t we? And… we know what to do now, in _every_ worst-case scenario. So…” She lifts a shoulder, and inclines her head. “Dick… Please. I want this.” Her eyes warm. “…I want _you.”_

I exhale, lying unmoving atop her a moment, and then finally kiss her. Our clothes are all the way off in a matter of seconds, and as I go for the lubricant in the top drawer of the nightstand, I pause, and mentally scream with frustration and fury. 

“Barb, uh… I don’t have any condoms,” I say. 

“Good. I don’t _want_ you to use one,” she states without missing a beat. 

I draw up completely short — comically, even — and goggle at her. “Umm… Repeat that last, Oracle?” 

“I don’t want you to use a condom,” she repeats plainly. 

I just stare stupidly, my jaw slackening. 

“And… when the time comes… I don’t want you to pull out, either,” she goes on. 

I’ve sprung a leak and I twitch even while my jaw falls all the way open. I have no words — I just huff a little in response. 

She bursts into laughter. “Oh, my god, Dick — you should see your face…” 

I reattach my jaw, and shake my head. “Sorry, I just…” I laugh with her. “Just didn’t expect that.” I pause, quieting, and then say, “Barb, um… are you sure we _should_ —” 

“Well, why shouldn’t we?” she asks. 

I’m silent. 

“Dick,” she says, again running her fingers through my hair. “I’m not saying let’s _try_ for anything, here. But what I _am_ saying… is that if you’re okay with it, I _want_ this — and I wouldn’t be too bent out of shape if anything happened.” She smiles. “Long story short — I’m okay with whatever might come of this, be that nothing or something, as long as you’re okay with it, too.” 

I’m silent, just gazing at her a moment, allowing the implications of those words to sink in. 

And even though I feel like maybe it should be too soon for this, too abrupt after the events of the last months, too much of a possible effort to attain something that I lost, and capricious and ill-advised just on a _basic_ level — those rationales don’t even seem as though they apply, or are relevant in any way. Not here. Not now. 

All I know is what I feel in this moment, and that’s all that matters. All that’s right. 

I’m okay with whatever comes of this, too. Be that nothing or something. And… 

“I love you, Barbara,” I whisper, and kiss her. 

I take one second to pray that this will turn out better than the last time that Barbara and I traversed this territory together. 

Then, I slick up, and with one hand, guide myself — _Slowly, take it easy, Dickie —_ and then I lose all the breath in my body as I slide inside her with an overpowering rush of sensation, amplified by the sense of coming _home._

I rock my hips, banally on reflex, on keeping this unimaginable _feeling_ going, unable to stop, even as the emotion of it overwhelms me. Her hands lace in my hair as her lips cover mine, our mouths parting and respiring together. 

“Oh, I missed you,” I breathe, pressing my forehead to hers. “I missed you —” 

She responds by kissing me harder, and her hands move down my back, caressing each plane, her nails tracing lightly over my skin. Her palms cup my buttocks, tightening. 

I bring my hands up, weave my fingers in her hair, and hold her gaze, quickening, my breath coming fast and shallow. A matter of moments, and I’m already close, my body amping wildly and rapidly toward an earth-shattering climax, unabashed by the loss of stamina. 

I’m about to warn her, just give her a heads-up that the end is nigh, but all I can do is breathe a repeated, “I love you, Barb —” in the moment my gut clinches up into an incinerating knot. 

That knot bursts all in a moment, and I come shouting, driving in as deep as I can go, finishing with my lips mashed to hers in a sharing of breath and voice. I slow and taper as my sex lapses, twitching inside her, my strength receding gradually, like a tide. My muscles relax piecemeal, one by one, until I finally sag down atop her, all of them gone liquid. I let go a sigh into her neck, treasuring the feeling of her lips as she kisses my forehead, stroking my hair with her fingers. 

“I love you, too, Dick,” Barbara whispers. 

And we lie together like this, breathing, processing, resting, engaged in silent connection. Even if every last hair follicle and atom in my body is fluid, a perfect study in relaxation, I remain vigilant as we recover — alert to any signs of alarm. 

We talk into the predawn hours when nothing of note arises, the conversation smooth and easy, flowing with perfect comfort until it dwindles into slowing half-sentences as drowsiness sets in. Barbara drifts off first, her eyes closing and her breathing deepening into a steady, even hum. I smile, kiss her cheek, and hold her close to me, reveling in the feeling of my best friend in my arms, of being _home,_ as I join her in slumber. 

xxxxx 

“Who’s this from?” I ask, noting the box of chocolate (incidentally from the best candy shop on the East Coast — Blüdhaven has its perks) resting on my desk in front of my computer. I lift it up and discover a card tacked to the bottom. 

“You remember that lady from back on your birthday?” Gannon asks, giving me his dimpled smile. 

I sober and pause in opening the card. “You mean that one kid’s mom?” 

“Yeah,” Gan says. “You’re not going to believe this, dude, but I ran into her at the supermarket the other night.” 

“Really? How’s she doing?” I ask. “I haven’t talked to her since I checked in with her back in January.” 

“She said she’s been doing okay, just kind of taking it day by day, you know. Anyway, she asked about you, and I _might_ have mentioned that you’re getting married soon.” 

I smile as I open the card. “Aw, so she sent me these?” 

“Well, she asked what kind of candy you like, and I told her Friesinger's,” Gannon says. “You’re going to share, aren’t you?” 

My smile widens, and I push the box of candy his way. “Of course. Knock yourself out, bro.” 

I look down at the card to read its inscription. 

_Corporal Grayson,_

_I ran into your partner at the shop the other night and went up to him to say I was sorry for trying to take a swing at him the last time we met. Well, we got to chatting and I asked after you, since I sure haven’t forgotten the other young man that helped me make it through those first moments of the worst period in my life. I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear you’re getting married, and to your best friend from the age of nine, so Corporal Malloy told me. I married my husband after we grew up together, too, and I’ll tell you here and now friendship is key in a marriage. May you be every bit as happy as my husband and I were, and may you have many, many more years together. Congratulations, honey. Stop by anytime if you’re so inclined and bring your girl with you. I’ve told your partner the same already._

_~Angela_

At the bottom is her contact info. I give her a quick call to thank her for the candy and ask after how she’s been. She gushes her relief that I’m okay after my run-in with “that sketchy Blockbuster character she sees on the news,” and then make arrangements to bring Barbara and Gan over for some coffee next week. Gannon says he’ll see if Jason can come along. 

“She _did_ say to bring your girl along, too,” I gibe, and Gan about laughs his ass off as we sit down to get started on the previous day’s outstanding paperwork, generally the first task of each work day. 

Maybe twenty minutes in, my personal cell buzzes atop the desk. I glance at the screen, and decide to pick up when I see the number is Jack Haly’s. I answer as I head to the break room. 

“Hi, Jack,” I say after I thumb the screen. “What’s up?” 

“Dick,” he says, his voice low and grim. “Listen… Something’s happened.” 

I pause, a sliver of trepidation rising into my middle at his tone. “What do you mean, something’s happened? Is everything okay?” 

“Yesterday afternoon Irving turned up sick. _Real_ sick,” Jack tells me. “He wound up in the ER all night — no one can tell what’s wrong with him. And he… he had a massive heart attack about an hour ago.” 

My guts go to ice. “Oh, no…” My palm sweats against the surface of the iPhone. “…Is he okay?” 

“Not really, sorry to say,” Jack says. “He’s been unresponsive since. They said he might pull through, but for now… it’s not looking too good.” 

“Jack, I’m so sorry,” I say, sitting heavily down on a chair at one of the tables. “How’s Alyssa holding up?” 

“Well, she’s a mess, Dick,” Jack says. “We all are — Irving’s always been so healthy, none of us thought…” He pauses for a moment, and then clears his throat. “Dick. Listen. We _can’t_ cancel the weekend’s show. We _can’t._ The trapeze act is everything this circus depends on. And without Irving…” 

There’s a brief period of quiet as I gaze at the floor, thinking. I know what he’s asking me. And I know he won’t accept monetary support to cover loss of ticket sales. Such a thing just isn’t in old Jack’s DNA, so there’s no sense in arguing with him. 

“When do you need me there, Jack?” I ask. 

“Well, first off, you been keeping in shape, son? You going to have enough time to get the hang of the routine? First performance is Friday…” 

“Yeah, that’s not a problem,” I assure him. “When are rehearsals?” 

“Well, I know you’ve got work, Corporal Grayson,” Jack says, a hint of fondness entering his voice, “but if you can be here through Thursday every day at 5:15, that’d be fine for us. You should be here at five on Friday.” 

“I’ll make it work,” I promise, then take a breath. I have to try. “Jack… Listen, you sure you don’t want to take some time, push back the performances a while?” 

“We’ll lose so many ticket sales, Dick,” Jack says forcefully. “And I don’t want you forking the money over for those losses. Charity won’t cover bad publicity and even your means can’t keep us going forever.” 

There’s another spell of quiet. 

“I understand, Jack,” I tell him somberly. “I’ll be there at 5:15.” 

“Appreciate it, son.” 

I hang up, and sit for a moment in the quiet of the empty break room, assimilating everything that I’ve just heard as it comes over me like a cumbrous, cloying blanket. 

How could _Irving —_ healthy as a horse and strong as an ox, as the sayings go — be sick to the point of a heart attack, with no apparent cause? He’s the last person I would ever have expected to even catch a cold, let alone end up in the ER. And he’s always been such a sturdy, dependable presence — just a good, solid, grounded friend with an intense loyalty — that I feel as though the very foundations of the earth have been shaken by this news. 

First things first. I call Alyssa to check in and offer my support. Then I exit the break room and bring Gannon up to speed, also letting him know I’d like to drop in on Irving at the hospital over lunch. He assures me he’s fine with hanging out in the cruiser so I can do that, since lunch for us follows patrol. I approach Amy about leaving an hour early on Friday, then give Barbara the uncomfortable run-down on what’s going on via email. I grind my fingers into my forehead, stressing, wondering, worrying. Then Alyssa emails me the performance outline so I can look it over before rehearsal tonight. With a pang, I see that the routine is _Moulin Rouge —_ Alyssa’s favorite. She had parts of the soundtrack played at their wedding, less than six months ago. 

_Hang in there, buddy,_ I think, closing my eyes and sending all my good thoughts Irving’s way, for whatever good they might do. _Just hang in there._

Then, I rally, and focus on work to distract myself until the lunch hour. 

xxxxx 

“Wow,” Alyssa says, peering through the rear entry door that opens up into the pit. “That’s a pretty decent house house out there tonight… You really should come out of retirement, Dickie.” 

I smile as I chalk my hands. “If I only had the time, Aly.” 

She smiles back, the expression a little wan, but genuine. “Well. I wish it was under better circumstances, but… it _is_ nice to have you back.” 

I hand her the chalk, somehow reminded of Artemis’ brief and deceptive return to duty all those years ago. “Thanks. It’s nice to _be_ back, just… like you said. Wish it was under better circumstances.” 

“Yeah, but Irving’s going to be okay, at least,” she reminds me. “So… the circumstances could be worse, right?” 

“Definitely,” I say. “Anyway —” I take her hands once she’s chalked them, and pitch my voice. “Spectacular, Spectatular, no words in the vernacular…” 

“Can’t describe this great event…” Alyssa supplies, her smile widening. 

“You’ll be dumb with wonderment…” 

We start in together, “So exciting, the audience will stomp and cheer! So delighting, it will run for fifty years!” 

We both laugh. I grin, and kiss her cheek. “All right, Satine, let’s do this. Knock ’em dead.” 

It’s been a surreal week to add to a surreal couple of months — I hadn’t realized how much I’d _missed_ the circus and my circus family until I arrived at the camp for rehearsals on Monday. It had been _months_ since I’d last seen them, and weeks since I’d so much as called. How I could justify failing to at least make an effort to drop in on the camps, just to catch up with everyone? It was just another arena in which I’d failed in my own life, something else to work on and resolve. 

Still, I found things comfortingly as they always were when I got to the camp; minus Irving’s pronounced absence, it was as though I’d never left. There was old Jack, Granny the retired-vaulter-turned-cook, Mara and Raya the mother and daughter who’ve taken over the vaulting routine, Harry the clown, Samson the strongman, Raj the daredevil, Oliver and Jentz the pyros, and to my greatest joy, my adored Zitka. The Asian elephant was a cornerstone of my life as I grew up — every bit as much a member of my family as my mother and father, my aunt and uncle, my cousin. I spent over an hour with her alone on Monday after rehearsals. It delayed my going out on patrol a bit, but it was worth it. 

She was just how I knew her to be, gentle and affectionate, always remembering me as I entered her pen without fear. She moseyed up at once, her ears flapping, her gait prancing and spirits banner high. I leaned my face against her forehead as she canted to me, and hugged her about her gorgeous face. 

“Oh, I missed you, beautiful,” I murmured, smiling when she chirped in response. I swear she understands every word spoken, and knows my thoughts without me ever having to give them voice. As I walked with her around her pen during this reunion, chatting to her about anything and everything, I suffered a common pang as I wondered if Haly’s is, in fact, the right place for her. It’s not the first time I’ve struggled with this sense of feeling torn over what’s best for her. Sure, she came to us because she was rescued from a sketchy tourist trap overseas in which she was horrendously abused as a young elephant (by my own parents’ urging, no less), and Jack and the circus family all take terrific care of her, with Haly adhering to all of the standards of humane treatment. They are, in fact, so mindful of her needs as to even receive commendation. However, I just can’t feel convinced that this life is the one for her. She ought to be in a big, expansive sanctuary, where she can roam as she pleases, enjoying more elephant-friendly things on her own time. It saddened me as I walked by her with one hand on her shoulder, but I couldn’t, and can’t, shake the feeling that the day to discuss the subject with Jack will be coming sooner rather than later. 

I listen now to the sounds of the crowds as Zitka goes through her own display in the pit beyond, and smile. When her part is finished, the vaulting act will begin, and following that, Alyssa and I will be on for the finale show. I hadn’t realized how powerfully I’d been _longing_ to feel the rush and joy of performance, to soak in the excitement and enthusiasm of the crowds, and I can feel my spirits rising all the way up to the stratosphere as I hear the shouts of the audience, the audience that holds a handful of my friends this evening. That Irving is going to be okay with some rest and recuperation vindicates my own excitement in this moment, and I allow the lifting energy to infuse me with its vibrance. My entire body sings, itching and raring to go. 

And just like that — it’s time. 

As Mara and Raya filter in through the chutes to either side of the backstage area, Alyssa and I enter the pit in shadow, and take positions across the way from one another, a good ways off. The spotlight comes down on Alyssa in her sparkling red costume as she gracefully winds her limbs into the aerial rope to start the first part of the routine — the corde lisse portion, which will be kept brief, but impressive, as we’re slowly lifted onto the mounts to start the trapeze performance. She angles her body into the fish pose, her back arched, her legs extended smoothly in perfect, unshaking planks over her head and torso. The lift begins, and she stretches one leg behind her, bending her knee to begin a slow, languid spin. Once she’s halfway up, it’ll be my turn. 

For my part, when the light hits me, I wind and twist into a wrapped scorpion inversion, arching my own back, one leg extended overhead and hooked around the corde lisse at the knee, the other reaching down in an obtuse, inturned angle to meet my hands where they grip the rope. I feel a slight tugging sensation in the stab site in my gut, but it’s hardly a problem now — the thing healed well, even if it delayed the detective’s exam until next month. I shift positions via a gentle spin into a single foot hang before reaching the mount and arching into a handstand atop its surface to mirror Alyssa. We both stretch into splits over the handstands, holding the pose until the music starts. 

The catch trap is within my reach, and on the music cue, I tuck into an upright position, perform a single salto, and on the descent, grip the trap to start the swing toward Alyssa’s mount. The crowd’s timbre increases in pitch, deafening even over the music, as we perform the first splits angel return, Alyssa’s form and movement perfect, making my own job extremely easy. I relax and ease into the routine, its rhythm coming every bit as naturally as muscle memory, the thrills and shouts from the crowd invigorating me with a thrumming, psychedelic high. This continuous surge of adrenaline is a familiar and delicious feeling, unique to performance, and that feels almost nostalgic somehow in this moment — _god,_ it’s been too long. 

We’ve just finished a hocks salto catch — not the least complex maneuver — when a deafening hiss and whistle overpowers the pulse of the music, followed immediately by a cacophonous, earth- and nerve-shattering _BOOM_ and a blast of incinerating heat. The shouts from the audience shift instantaneously from excitement to terror, and as I hold Alyssa in my grip, her body swinging beneath mine where I hang from the catch trap by my knees, my mouth opens in shock and horror as I see the conflagration below spread like a tidal wave in a wash of blinding fire. The canvas top of the tent goes up in billowing tongues of flame with an astounding immediacy. 

Alyssa shrieks inarticulately in shock and confusion, and I grasp her more urgently as she loses her own hold on me and twists in a moment of reflexive response to her overt, rising fear. 

“Alyssa — hold onto me —” I grunt through my clenched teeth, and exhale through them when her fingers wrap around the bases of my wrists. I get a better hold on her, and fight to haul her up as I thrust my body with all my strength toward the mount. “Go for the mount — I’m going to toss you up there — use the rope to get to the ground —” 

“Dick, the ground’s on fire!” she shouts. “Where —” 

“It’s not to the mount yet, but you’ve got to move!” I yell. “Ready, one, two, three —” 

I swing with all my effort, coming up over the mount, and release her wrists. 

Alyssa expertly twists her body to land with perfect grace atop the mount, and scrambles onto the corde lisse to zoom swiftly to the ground below. She sprints for the exit flap, and pauses to look frantically up at me, the alarm and concern on her face plain to see even from this height. I give her a thumbs up, and motion for her to leave. She thrusts the flap open and gets the hell out of dodge, and an increasing group of spectators make their chaotic, teeming way to the same exit when they witness her departure. The door will take them through the changing rooms, past Zitka’s holding pen, and to the back of the lot outside. Providing they don’t start trampling each other — a whole different problem that I need to work to mitigate _now._

Now… Well, now I need to get myself off this trapeze and into a position to get people safely out of this sudden inferno. How the fire started — I have _no_ idea. All I know is that it seemed like a fucking asteroid blasted in here to light this place up. My brain shifts and clicks into immediate gear as I drop onto the mount after a good arch off the trap, and fireman slide down the corde lisse to hit the ground. Jesus, it was all fine and dandy one second — and now, in another, it’s utter pandemonium against a backdrop of hell. 

The fire grows swiftly, licking up the canvas sides of the big top, eating it like a blazing monster, exposing rents of sky overhead through the blooming curtain of smoke. I tear the top away from my costume and pull it over my nose and mouth, knotting it at the nape of my neck, and form a quick plan of attack in my mind. 

I race toward the bleachers and spectators, my path taking me perilously close to the riotous fire that unfolds across the straw-covered pit like a roving animal, and halfway there, I grab Joey, Haly’s security guard, who’s unsteadily motioning to and directing a throng of pedestrian traffic toward the side exit of the tent, still standing. I indicate a segment of screaming, terrified people that are bouncing shoulder-to-shoulder beyond on the lowermost of the bleachers flush with the canvas side. 

“Break this group here into two, get yours to go to this exit — you try funneling them _all_ through here and they’ll start trampling one another!” I shout over the din of the screams and the blaze. “I’ll get that other group up there off the bleachers and out through the front exit — the fire hasn’t gotten there yet! _Everyone makes it out of this tonight —_ got it?” 

“Dick, you gotta get yourself out!” he bellows. “You can’t be hangin’ around in here, it ain’t safe for ya —” 

“Joey, I’m a cop and I’ve done volunteer firefighting — I’ll be fine, now let’s move!” I shout, and with Joey moving to get to work, I’m already heading to my destination. 

Screaming in my mind as I race against time is that my friends and family are somewhere in this crowd — Barbara, Artemis, the twins _(Jesus Christ — the twins)_ Jason, Tim, Gannon — and I have no way of calling for them, and in the bedlam, they’re nowhere to be seen. I pump my arms, propelling myself forward as fast as I can go. Barbara can’t run herself out of here — 

In this second, blazing shanks of dislodged canvas — some of them longer than trucks and about as wide, others middling, still others smaller — whirl down from overhead like a meteor shower. So much for any plans — I don’t have time to think or put them into motion. Reaching the bleachers under the hail of fire, I just _react._ I bodily hurl myself into the first people at hand, mashing them into the space under the bottommost plank and pushing the lot of us (mostly) beneath the aluminum’s pitiful protection, making up for the difference by sheltering them with my body the best I can. These telescoping bleachers are not open in the back, each plank supported by full lengths of metal beams beneath, lowering fall risks. I press myself to the as yet faceless people, jamming them into those metal beams and the ground beneath the seat. I can _feel_ the agonizing, stinging sizzle as pieces of the canvas top and sparks strike the bits of me that are exposed, _hear_ the screams as my wards panic. 

Their bellows rise in pitch and decibel as the earth itself seems to quake, the sound fit to rupture eardrums and break bones, and the heat flashes into a pyroclastic intensity around us. I grip my charges under me more tightly as they thrash in fear. 

“Don’t move — don’t move —” I shout, chancing a glance over my shoulder to take stock of what’s happening. 

My insides go colder than the Arctic in spite of the heat when I see the zooming fireballs that speed from above, as though the sky itself has opened up and begun to rain a volley of flame. I crane my neck farther to look up overhead, seeking some _answer_ to this abrupt transportation into the furnace of Gehenna, fighting the disturbing sense that these are the endtimes and we’d all just better repent. 

My jaw goes slack when I see the outline of mechanical wings, the orbular, blinking glow of protective, augmented goggles — their lights so bright as to be visible even from here through the obstructive smoke and blinding fire — the black, insectile shape silhouetted against the night sky. The form soars overhead in a fast, graceful arch, unleashing another salvo that pelts and lights up everything in its path beneath it. 

Firefly. 

I track the sight of him as he streaks overhead, then cover my head as the fusillade continues. 

_Why —_

A blinding orb strikes the bleachers across the way dead on, and totally helpless in this position, I duck my head all the way down when the blast explodes outward in a penumbra of flame. 

When the bombardment dissipates, I loosen my grip on my charges, and worm out from beneath the bleacher. I’ve taken on what appears to be a mother and her two kids, one a girl of maybe thirteen, the other a boy a little older. All are saucer-eyed and sooty, their shoulders stooped, their cheeks tracked with streaming tears. They cough harshly in the smoke. 

_Shit — smoke inhalation —_

As if on cue, the coughs from the barrel of my own chest start up, and my eyes water and blur. The thin material of the costume only does so much. My head swims in corybantic circles, threatening to knock me on my ass at any second. We can’t stick around in here another minute — smoke inhalation can kill in barely two. 

“Get your shirts up over your nose and mouth!” I shout, and all three thankfully acquiesce. _Some_ protection is better than none. I indicate the front exit beyond the smoldering, mangled ruins of the opposite bleachers, then extend a hand to the mother. “Hang onto my hand and keep your kids close to you — just follow me, okay? We’re going to get out through the front exit and make our way to the lot.” The woman takes my hand, her palm hot and slick with sweat, perceptibly trembling. Her son takes her other, and then grasps his sister’s hand. All three are visibly terrified, rabbits under the gun. 

“It’ll be okay, guys,” I assure them, adopting as calm and soothing a voice as I can manage, “just stay close to each other, keep your shirts over your faces, and we’ll make it out of here. We’re gonna be fine.” 

Some people around us have risen, staggering crazed for the smoking exit through the roiling smoke and smaller, dancing flames. The big top continues to burn, the flames licking away giant strips of it, all of the red and white disappearing into plumes of black. The pit is like the mouth of hell — a fiery giant, the flames aggressive and eye-splitting yellow, its fingers reaching for us with rising urgency. I give the mother’s hand a tug, and start a path for the exit, still standing in the rippling tent side. 

My stomach falls into the pit of my guts and my gorge rises into my throat at the sight of all the unmoving bodies around us — lumps of blackened flesh and cloth, some still spitting tongues of spark and ash, the stench of smoke and burning skin overpowering. The flames blossom around us, coming closer and closer, their heat awe-inspiring. My arms and chest are exposed to the increased incalescence in the air now, my skin sweating hot and fast. 

With this family depending on me like this, I can’t stop to check if any of the people prone around us are alive — I _have_ to focus on one thing at a time, and right now, it’s getting this mother and her kids to safety. I’ll have to come back if the fire department hasn’t arrived when we’ve escaped this inferno. I’m _sick_ with fear for my loved ones, Zitka included — her attached holding pen is full of straw, it will go up like a match in this conflagration — but also I _know_ how capable my family are, that they know what to do in exactly this situation, and that Zitka can endure and escape. I have to keep my faith in my loved ones, and _pray_ they’ll be okay until I can find them. 

Hearing with stabs of horror the sounds of shouts and groans and the terrified whinnying of horses — _Oh, God, the performing horses —_ I guide the family I lead as quickly as I can through the buffeting smoke, slowly losing dexterity and balance, all of us coughing. 

“Mom… those people are on fire…” the girl behind me breathes. I glance back, and see her eyes darting back and forth over the panorama of scorched, motionless human shapes around us, all lying in mounds of black and red amid the ruins of the pelted bleachers. 

“Don’t look at it, sweetheart,” I tell her over my shoulder. “Just keep your eyes on your brother, okay? Keep your eyes on your brother, don’t look around you, just think about Wondergirl, and keep your eyes on him. I _promise_ I’ll get you guys out of here.” 

I round up as many people as I can to herd them toward the front exit. One is a disoriented middle-aged man, and along with him, a mother and her small child, and the last two a college-aged couple. I open the flap, and guide everyone out into the air beyond the burning tent. They don’t need any encouragement, making it as far away from the blaze as they can. Bursting into the lot in their wake with the mother and her children, I release them when we’re a tolerable distance from the fiery big top, tear the cloth from my face, and hunch, barking rending coughs that rip their way out of my throat, no longer able to rein them in. 

I see the woman and her kids off to the nearest group of people to await EMS, squeezing the mom’s hand as she thanks me. All the while, as my breath tears into my lungs like acid blades, I look frantically around for _any_ sight of Barbara, Artemis, the twins, Jason, Tim, Gannon — 

Catching not a sight of even one of them as I jog through the crowd, looking and seeking, my breath rips hoarsely past my aching, swollen throat faster and faster, my heart driving with the rapid fury of a stressed piston rod, my sight funneling down into an intense focus barely wider than a soda straw. I shout their names with mounting urgency, the fear and dread mushrooming in my chest. The sound of sirens wails off in the distance, coming nearer by the second, bringing no comfort — by my estimate, if my family are in that tent, the fire department won’t be here in time to save them. 

My decision made, I turn. 

I can’t lose my fiancée after I nearly lost her twice — I can’t lose my brothers to another fiery blast like this — I can’t lose Artemis — _I can’t lose Isa or Iris,_ I can’t let _Wally_ lose them — I can’t lose my partner — 

I _won’t_ lose them. Not while there’s breath in my body. 

I ignore the shouts of warning and protest from the strangers around me as I pelt it toward the exit flap I just left through, heedless of the flames that have brought the big top to its knees, my lungs exploding in ragged blooms in my chest. 

I yank the swatch of wet, sweaty cloth from where it hangs around my neck back over my face as I burst past the waving shards of canvas in a blast of smoke. When the cloud thins into a paler curtain, I drop down, and haul myself over the smoldering floor, my bare chest and arms nicked with burns, the smoke chokingly thick even this low. 

I shout every name as loudly as I possibly can, fighting my way through the gloaming. All around me are madly dancing suns of stunning heat, rendering everything they touch a cindered, ashen ruin of rubble and refuse, the air hazed and moving in a hot, solid veil around me. 

Even as the crushing sorrow for the pitiable bodies that I come upon streaks tears unrelated to the smoke over my cheeks — I know I have to find my loved ones if they’re in here, and so I move with a duofold purpose, not only checking for signs of life in these unfortunate people, but desperately seeking Barbara, Artemis, the twins, my brothers, Gannon. I look on faces blackened with soot and distorted with burns, turn over others to study their features, test for pulses. When I find one, weak and arrhythmic, I haul up, draw the unconscious form of the man across my shoulders, and drag him to the fore of the tent to bring him out to the lot. I do this once more with a young woman still relatively lucid, whom I distract from the horrors of the fire by quoting Drax lines from the _Guardians of the Galaxy_ movies to her. Going back in after this, I find not a single pulse — and not a single familiar face. 

I have to keep trying — I have to — 

The sirens are audible now over the din of the fire, the sound echoing strangely in and out of my hearing. As I continue in my search, I scream the names of my quarries into the roaring sheafs of fire that gambol in a fatal patchwork across the detritus around me. There’s precious little left of the canvas big top. It’s gutted, burst outward in a gruesome extravasating, its innards burned and scattered, its bones scorched and crumbling. Only the bare skeleton of metal support beams remain standing. Still the fires burn brightly, fed by the remaining scraps of canvas, sparking straw, and unimpeded oxygen. 

I can’t find _anyone,_ and I’m growing dizzier by the second, my throat and chest as fiery as my surroundings. My mouth is parched now to the point I can barely shout. The cover of thin material from my costume over my mouth and nose only does so much, and it’s failing. Nearing the carcass of the fallen bleachers, I pick up the pace, still doing my best to call out the names of my loved ones, knowing damn well I might die here. Everything’s blackening, the smoke going darker, the edges of my vision blurring into pitchy murk. My lower lip tickles and I taste the mineral tang of blood through the soot. My nose is bleeding, gushing over my lip and chin. 

There’s a _shoomp_ and a whining sound, then a blistering hot pressure when a chunk of molten debris falls and hits my shoulders from overhead. I go to my knees, struck as though with a fist. I can’t see a damn thing, everything going in and out of focus. 

I hear the screeching wail of protesting metal, and I look up just in time to see the half-detached support beam swaying drunkenly overhead, alight against the night sky in the flames that flicker around its shaft. It snaps loose and arches toward me in a pyretic arch. I move to scramble away, my motions stunted by the weakness and disorientation permeating my form. 

I feel the ground below me shaking, a repeated series of beating, drum-like thrums. In a matter of seconds, all sounds have gone hazy, muffled and echoey. They culminate in a steady, bellowing sound, one so powerful that the earth shivers tectonically. I look behind me, and make out a big, bulky shape through the smoke, the source of the tremendous sound. 

“Zitka…?” I mumble stupidly, my voice wetly throbbing in my clogged ears. It seems ludicrous, impossible, even — but I don’t think even my blurred vision is lying to me. 

Her foot comes down near me — it’s her, it’s unmistakably her — and I feel the touch and pull of her trunk. 

Everything passes now in frenetic, psychotropic spurts as the world around me upends itself. All the while, I’m helpless to stop or comprehend a single thing of it. First, it’s a whirling streak of dark sky cartwheeling over me, a rush of warm, thick air that passes over my burned, sooty skin like roving fingers, the feeling of my skin tugging and pulling as though caught by a rope. 

Next, I’m gagging into the singed grass lining the remains of the tent, the makeshift mask collapsed over my chin, my throat spitting coughs that spew from the depths of my chest. Blood sprays from my nose. Bile rises in my sore, ballooning throat. 

Then, there’s a humming, skittering sound — a familiar sound — and the feeling of jerking whiplash. 

Finally, there’s an indeterminate darkness that overtakes me like a blessed, powerful drug, swallowing my awareness every bit as aggressively as the smoke and fire that devoured the circus. 

xxxxx 

I jerk to all at once with a hiss, finding myself in surroundings entirely different, apparently the interior of a hospital room. I sit up, bewildered, my eyes burning with a dry, acid heat, my lungs aching and weak. My throat is jagged and tender, my mouth a foul, barren desert. My back and arms sting with the needling bites of what feels like a million burns. I rise a bit, looking around, utterly disoriented. A cannula is looped over my ears, the inflow of oxygen cold and tingly in my nostrils. 

“What —” I hiss, rubbing my unfocused eyes. 

“Easy now, Master Dick,” I hear Alfred’s blessed, familiar voice tell me. His hand squeezes my shoulder. “You’ve endured severe smoke inhalation and some second-degree burns — you _must_ rest.” 

Like a galloping herd, the realization that I’m _not_ still in the fire, that I’m _not_ surrounded by screams for help and sounds of terror and violence, comes up fast and bowls me over with its terrible ramifications. I look over at Alfred, my eyes finally focusing in the dim light of the room. 

“Alfred,” I breathe desperately, my voice a hoarse, reedy husk. My chest leaps and falls under the hospital gown. Tears spring into my hot, itchy eyes. “What happened? What about the others —” 

He reaches over, and squeezes my hand. “You don’t need to worry about them, Master Dick. None of our loved ones sustained any lasting or serious damage. Miss Barbara and Master Jason are in this same hospital, in fact, undergoing treatment for the same things you are. And Miss Barbara will be released in the morning, and like you, Master Jason the day following. All the others were released to at home self care.” 

I slowly release a breath, and close my eyes to inhale with greater care, forcing myself to dial it back a notch. _Calm down, Dickie. Calm down. They’re all right. Just calm down —_

Still, the terror shoots through me like so many poisoned barbs. “The twins — are they okay?” 

“They have a tough mum to keep them safe, Master Dick,” Alfred assures me. “They’re all safe at home now, none the worse for wear. Miss Artemis got them out quickly and without injury.” 

Again, I exhale, my shoulders unknotting somewhat. Abruptly, they reknot themselves when I remember with a stab my elephantine Lassie. “Zitka?” 

“She’s all right, too,” Alfred says, and pats my hand as I sink with relief. “Remanded for now to the elephant sanctuary at the Gotham Zoo. All members of the circus are accounted for, as well, although unfortunately some of the performing horses were lost. Master Wally completed your rescue — he withdrew from his own presentation at Stanford the moment he caught wind of the fire and rushed here as quickly as he could. Which, as you know, is quite fast.” 

Ah. That explains the skittering noise. 

“Is he okay?” I ask. 

“He’s perfectly all right, Master Richard. Just a little shaken at what might have happened, much as the rest of us are. But please, sir — you mustn’t worry. Just rest.” 

“Alfred.” 

He inclines his head. 

“There were fatalities, weren’t there,” I say, my voice a thin, raspy husk. 

_Bodies smoldering atop the ashen rubble — limbs outstretched, unmoving — sightless eyes, staring, reflecting the flames like dull marbles —_

There’s a moment of quiet, and he nods. “But like I said, Master Dick. You mustn’t worry. Rest now.” 

“How many died?” I ask, my jaw setting, my heart sinking, my stomach paddling. 

Alfred is quiet, and shakes his head. “Rest, Master Richard.” 

“Alfred. _How many.”_

He eyes me a moment, and releases a long, slow sigh. “Sixty-one.” 

The tears welling in my eyes fall aggressively over my cheeks, and I sag into the pillows under me, letting them come as they will, even if they sear my ducts and lashlines like scouring acid. My chest burns and aches as it jumps with my sobs, and I look up helplessly at the ceiling, then squinch my eyes shut as my whole body wracks itself. My hands press into my hair, pushing hard into my scalp. Everything I can do, all that I’m capable of, all my training, all my experience, all that my mentors have taught me — _no one_ should have died, no one — 

“How did this happen —” I sob through my hands, moving them now to my face, “ _how —_ how did I _let_ this happen — I _failed,_ Alfred —” 

Alfred’s hand grasps mine, and pulls it gently away from my face. “Master Richard, you mustn’t blame yourself. You mustn’t, and you can’t. The death toll would have been _unimaginably_ higher if you hadn’t been there and hadn’t acted as you did. You did _everything_ you could — and nearly killed yourself in the process. You mustn’t and _cannot_ do this, sir — and I won’t have it from you, either.” 

“Barbara and Jason are in the _hospital,_ Alfred!” I exclaim, jerking my hand away. My voice breaks and rasps. “They were hurt bad enough to end up in the _goddamn hospital!_ And I didn’t — _couldn’t_ — stop that from happening — and I don’t care if _it could have been worse!_ They shouldn’t be here at all! And all those people — all those that died and _lost_ those that died — _why couldn’t I save them —”_

Next thing I know, Alfred has come to my bedside, and with one light tug, he’s drawn me to him, his arms wrapping around me, grandfatherly and protective. I hurl my arms around his waist, bawling now, each cry a barking, husky bray. 

“There now, Master Dick,” he murmurs gently in the words and tone I know so well — the words and tone that can calm me in even the most catastrophic moments of utter despair. “…Listen, sir. I’d like to tell you something. Are you up for listening?” 

I give a puerile snuffle, and nod through my tears. 

“Very well, then. There was a time in the service that my unit and I were tasked with removing a warlord from his position of power within the city he lorded over. He was a clever one, mind you, and _very_ well-protected by his bodyguards and militia alike — making the task of removing him that much more difficult, and often multiplied our work tenfold. One day there was an incident when a brawl occurred over the food supplies provided by overseas aid organizations — this warlord would all too often get his hands on them and hoard them, you see, using hunger to control the masses. My unit was overseeing the transferral of the food supplies on this afternoon — a group of us, of forty men. It was a routine mission, simple guard duty, really — surely it wouldn’t come to extraordinary blows, all of us thought. None of us even considered taking along more than the barest water supply in the equatorial heat — assuming the mission would take perhaps half an hour at the most. Well, Master Dick… sixteen hours, twelve British casualties, far more enemy casualties, and still more _civilian_ casualties, only then was the mission accomplished. Hithertofore, minimal forces were used to thieve the food supplies from the local transport vehicles after they left the hands of the aid corps — but that day, the militia came out in full force. And we were grossly ill-prepared.” 

There’s a pause, neither of us moving, neither of us withdrawing from one another. Twenty-five years old, and here is Alfred, holding me while I cry like a big, dumb baby as though I’m all of ten, telling me one of his own manifold stories of horror and trauma all the while. All of us are so _close_ , so alike in our experience — each unique and to his own, but so, so similar, all the same. It’s one of the many ties that, while we might not be consciously aware of it all the time, bind us all together, and that will _hold_ us together until Judgment Day — and after. I huddle closer to him, and let him continue, my tears still coming quick and steady as I listen. 

“For years, no, _decades,_ Master Dick, I couldn’t shake the guilt that haunted me after that skirmish. I couldn’t relinquish the self-condemnation of allowing so many civilians to be caught in the crossfire, for _so many_ enemies to die so needlessly. Surely I could have done something, _anything_ differently, I thought endlessly to myself — I couldn’t possibly have done _everything_ that I could have. No, I thought, I _failed._ I failed in all areas that day — I failed my friends, my brothers-in-arms, my family away from my family. I failed my fellow man — all those innocent civilians that hardly asked to be there, and yet found themselves so undeservingly in harm’s way. I even failed the enemy by allowing it to escalate the way that it did — as though there was even a single thing that I could have done to halt it once that first shot was fired.” He draws back a moment, and lays his hands on my shoulders. “And yet, Master Dick… I received a Distinguished Service Cross for that same incident. In recognition of my courage under fire and my actions that saved the lives of seven of my wounded brothers, and shortened the battle a fair deal.” He shakes his head. “It seemed unjust, insulting, even, to me, at the time — after all, it was hardly my efforts alone that saw those tasks accomplished, and shouldn’t I have saved them all? It was enough that I chose to complete my tour of duty, and resign from the service. It wasn’t long after that, in fact, that I came to the Wayne family.” There’s a pause. “Listen to me, Master Richard… we are all, at the end of the day, but one man. And one man cannot carry all the burdens of the world alone.” Again, he draws me close. “And you acted with the courage and strength of _ten_ men tonight, sir. Do you know how many rescues you personally assisted with? A fair few, I’ll tell you right now — and that’s not even counting those that your friends and Masters Tim and Jason accomplished alongside before emergency services and a League team arrived. And you came a damn sight close to killing yourself to see it done. I know you don’t want to hear these words… but imagine if you, and your friends and brothers, had not been there.” He gives me a light press. “You did _well_ , Master Richard.” 

I hold him tighter, and just let the tears come as they will now, all of the awful images of the fire still replaying themselves before my line of sight, the caustic, overpowering stink of the smoke still in my nostrils, the roar and crack of the flames still bellowing in my ears. My heart beats in rents and tears, its rhythm erratic, fluttery within my chest. But Alfred’s presence smoothes the edges, takes the harshness and toxicants from them, enabling me to keep breathing, drawing in air with a deliberate, measured rhythm. 

After a time, I shake my head against his chest. “Why would Firefly attack a _circus_ , Alfred? Why? I just don’t understand…” 

“That’s what Master Bruce is working to find out — he stopped in for only a moment before he rushed out, determined to get to the bottom of this,” he tells me. “But for now, you _need_ to rest, Master Dick. You’ve only just come off a severe injury, among other things, and now… you’ve had a bad time. You need to focus on recovering for right now. And nothing else.” 

“Where’s Barbara? Have you seen her?” I ask. 

“Miss Barbara is quite all right,” Alfred assures me. “Her father was along to see her and gave me nothing but a good report. And you know Miss Barbara, always clear-headed in even the worst crises. She was able to make her way to tolerable cover and stay down until Master Jason could locate her.” 

I sigh in a moment of reprieve. “What about Jason, Alfred? You said he was here, too?” 

“Among our own and apart from you, Master Jason took the worst of the injuries, I’m afraid, but he’s going to be perfectly all right,” Alfred says. “Looking for survivors saw him quite a sight of smoke inhalation, much like you, and falling debris gave him a rather impressive score of burns and bumps. However, I’ve been to see him, and you’ll be happy to hear he’s his usual cantankerous self. He even tried getting up out of bed to go and complete his night’s work, in fact. And he was quite determined to do so — that is, before he went straight to his face atop the floor and accepted that perhaps he ought to remain on oxygen for the prescribed period indicated by the doctors. I’d say that’s a good sign he’s on the mend.” 

I finally half-smile. “Yeah. I’d concur that’s a pretty legal indicator he’s going to be okay.” I draw in a breath, release it. “You know, Alfred, I think one of my short-term goals ought to be to not wind up in this hospital again for a while.” 

He chuckles, and runs a hand over my hair. “I’d say that’s a worthy goal, Master Richard.” 

I pause, and think about something. “Alfred… where _is_ Barbara? I want to see her. Jason, too.” 

“Ah. Well, Miss Barbara asked me to pass along a message. She said to tell you she would be along first thing in the morning, once you’ve had some rest… and also that if she learned you disconnected yourself from the oxygen supply for even one tenth of a Planck length, she would skin you — and me — alive. And I don’t know about you, sir, but I rather like my skin the way it is. In place and intact.” 

I pause, and realize that yeah, Barbara probably _will_ skin me alive if I fail to comply with the doctor’s (in this case, very necessary) orders, and then Alfred for allowing me to remove the cannula and get up and walk after I replaced a hundred percent of the oxygen in my body with toxic smoke. I sigh unhappily. “Can’t you just… beg ignorance and let me bear the brunt of the wrath of Barbara? I can’t _stand_ just lying here after —” My voice breaks embarrassingly, and my eyes well all over again. “Just… Alfred. I nearly lost her one time already — and after tonight… I just want to _see_ her.” I give a feeble sigh, and fiddle with a handful of blanket. “…I just want to see her. And Jason. I need to see them both.” 

Alfred lays a hand on my shoulder, and gives me a gentle, conciliating press. “I understand, Master Richard. Truly, I do. And you will see them soon. However, if you do not remain hooked up to that oxygen supply for now, you will enjoy an even shorter walk than Master Jason did.” 

I shake my head. “What if I _promise_ I’ll be fine —” 

“Do not make me consider restraint straps,” Alfred threatens, interrupting me, “because you know that I will.” 

I adopt the best pout I can manage. “Alfred. Please.” 

He shakes his head, now chuckling. “I daresay, some things never change. I’m sorry, Master Richard, but this time, I _must_ say no. And you know that if I felt it to be even somewhat on the beam, I would normally enable you in your refractoriness, and be quite happy to do so. But in this case… well, I’d find you much like Jason himself earlier, in essence — nothing but quite snookered.” This at last garners a weak chuckle out of me. “As such, I’m afraid I must put my foot down, and _insist_ you remain in bed like a good lad. Miss Barbara has verbosely promised that she will be along first thing in the morning — and believe you me, sir, she’s every bit as unhappy about the situation as you are. Just a damn sight _wiser_ about it.” 

I half-smile. “Isn’t she always?” 

He smiles in turn. “Now _there’s_ a good lad, Master Dick. Not only will Miss Barbara be along in the morning, but Masters Bruce, Tim, and Gannon, as well. I wouldn’t be too surprised if your friends also drop in to check up on you lot before you’re released.” 

I sigh, somewhat appeased for the time being. 

“You get some rest now,” Alfred murmurs, and again, runs a soothing hand over my hair. 

“Alfred,” I say. 

“Hmm?” 

“Can you… can you stay in here? Just until I fall asleep?” 

He smiles his warm smile, his eyes crinkling in their familiar way. 

“Master Dick, I will stay right here for the entire night,” he tells me, and seats himself in the chair by the bed. 

There’s guilt at this, knowing hospital accommodations aren’t the most comfortable even in the best facilities and sure as hell not at RABE, but I don’t fight him, _needing_ him now. With a sigh, I reach out, and he clasps my fingers. “Thank you.” 

He nods. “Rest now, sir.” 

I take a long, deep breath, keeping my hand in Alfred’s. I close my eyes, breathing slowly and cautiously, tentatively testing the waters of rest, looking for any signs of nightmares and terrors beneath their falsely peaceful surface. But with Alfred near, the waters prove quiet and tranquil, offering nothing but reprieve and comfort from all of the heartbreak, trauma, and anguish. At least… for now. I slip under, allowing the safety and security of his nearness to keep all the demons that swim in the depths at bay, mollified by the knowledge that I’ll see my loved ones upon waking. 


	21. Endgame (3)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, y'all...
> 
> Just want to send nods and loves to chibi_nightowl and Libraryman85 for being awesome wonderful people and letting me bounce parts of this off them. <3 Love you guys!
> 
> Spanish to English at the end!
> 
> Happy reading, and enjoy! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> EF <3

**CHAPTER 21**

Well, _guapo,_ I have half a mind to track down Firefly and give him the Redhorn treatment, i.e. turn him into a nice, big chunk of Swiss cheese — the worst that the _maldita bruja_ suffered in the fire at Haly’s (which is national news, that idiot Lynns must be so proud) was _smoke inhalation. ¡Qué chingados!_ She was supposed to go up _en llamas_ and burn like the witch she is — not get _rescued_ by that stupid meathead brother of yours. I should have smothered _both_ of them while they were in the hospital — but good luck doing that without detection, considering you and Gannon insisted on hovering around both of them every waking moment like a chorus in a Greek tragedy. _Mierda._

_El Jesucristo,_ none of your monstrous, barbarian pals were any the worse for wear after the fire — _¡ninguna!_ But I suppose I shouldn’t have expected differently. They are all trained in fire and emergency response, after all, and let’s face it. It’s not like I wanted the twins to suffer any real harm. Frankly, _Barbara_ is the one who really needs to go. What a stranglehold she keeps on those around her! Forget the others, they’ll doubtless fall in line when _she’s_ out of the picture, overbearing slave-driver that she is — I’m sure of it. If she _ever_ gets out of the damn picture. 

There’s only one thing for it, I know — even if it’s not part of Blockbuster’s grand master plan, and even if it throws him into one of his somehow simultaneously lunkheaded and eloquent rages (which are always hilarious to witness, if nothing else.) 

I need to blow the apartment building a few days early. Sorry, Roland, but all is fair in love and war, and this is both. 

Fewer tenants will be home at the new intended hour, which won’t behoove Roly-Poly much (he’s working to maximize your losses, play on your tendency to take infinitely more responsibility than necessary in every situation), but Barbara at least is guaranteed to be in her little nook dicking around — pardon the expression — with God-knows-what, nerdy pursuits or computer geek crap or teacherly things or what the hell ever. And considering that I familiarized myself comfortably with the ins and outs of the bomb that Desmond provided, I know how to rewire it and blow it whenever I darn well please, and without scattering pieces of myself all over the neighborhood in the process. 

Babs came home from RABE the day before you, and it _figures_ you would have endured the worst smoke inhalation of all, along with a smattering of fairly decent burns to add to your repertoire of scars — you just _had_ to play the hero per your wont and everything. I swear, _querido,_ _you’re_ the one of the two of us that needs psychiatric help. Anyway, when you joined the ugly bitch at home after your own release, you fussed _obnoxiously_ over each other — each assuring the other that you were perfectly fine but oh, darling, how are _you_ feeling? 

_El vómito._

I watch the two of you now via the feed from the cameras, my chest tight and tense, my teeth chewing my lip to shreds. I’ve torn every hangnail from every finger, each one now bloody and ragged. I hate this part of things, having to sit through the maudlin, lovey-dovey shit — but it’s necessary if I’m to make my move at the right time. I _don’t_ want you to be in the building, after all. 

“You sure you’re feeling okay to go back to work so soon, stud?” Babs asks from her perch at her appropriated desk by the window. “The fire was only last week…” 

Critical, as always, as that twat can eternally be counted upon. 

“I’m all right, babe,” you assure her, and half-dressed, spring into a perfect handstand. “See?” You march around on your hands, your legs stretched gracefully overhead, nary a twitch in your entire body for the effort. “Still pretty spry, right?” 

When your path takes you close enough to her, she glances over, and gives your hip a pointed nudge — and overboard you go in a heap of limbs (I don’t suppose it occurred to her that she could have seriously hurt you with that little stunt. What’s next, butter on the bathroom floor?) Both of you are laughing, although you abruptly sober when you sit up, resting by her chair. The humor in the room goes from lighthearted to melancholy as silence comes over the two of you like a black shroud. 

“…I need to work, Babs,” you murmur after a moment. 

She reaches down, and brushes your hair from your forehead. 

“…I understand, hon,” she says, and leans down to kiss your cheek. “You know, I think you have a lot more in common with my dad than either of you realizes.” 

You smile. “Must be why we get along so well.” 

She smiles back. “Yep. You understand each other.” She watches you a moment as you get up to pull your uniform shirt on over your white crew-neck and start in on the buttons. “You know he always liked you, Dick. And he only liked you even more when you became a cop — you’re the son he never had, you know, and when you chose this path, he told me that it almost felt to him like you were following in his footsteps.” She helps you with your tie, then pulls you down by it to kiss your lips. “Bottom line… I know we’ve talked about this a thousand times. But you don’t need to worry about how my dad feels about you — he loves you as his own. _Dearly_ as his own. You know that, right?” 

You’re quiet a moment, then smile down at her. “I do. And I love him, too, Barb — I just… hope I can come anywhere close to being _worthy_ of that love, you know?” 

She draws you down again until your forehead rests against hers. “Well, I think we all go through that, babe. But you _are_ worthy. Honestly… you need to stop blaming yourself for things you really have no control over. Okay? And you need to stop assuming that everyone around you holds you responsible for them, too.” (Honestly, how this bitch thinks she has the right to wax all sage and supportive when just five seconds ago she was knocking you on your butt and poking fun at you, I’ll never know. My fingers _itch_ to tinker with some fun-colored wires and just blow her ass sky-high. Ugh. Soon, Cat. Soon.) “Now go knock ’em for a loop, Boy Wonder.” 

“Love you,” you murmur, and kiss her. 

“Love you, too,” she says as you bump noses with her. “…Be careful out there, Dick. It could very well be Corporal Grayson honked off the wrong person and they might still be after you.” 

You give her a cheeky look as you straighten. “Me, careful? Never. Besides, maybe being a total schmuck out there will help bring them out into the open.” 

She laughs, and hands you your to-go coffee cup. “Tell Gan I said to look after you, then.” 

You smile. “I will. But he always does, babe.” 

She smiles, too. “I know.” 

One more kiss, and off you go with a jaunty wave. 

And there’s my cue. 

Once the door shuts behind you, I close the feed, and throw on another guise, this one as some low-income transient with red hair dressed in thrifted clothing. And with that… I’m off to see the wizard. 

I walk to the apartment building, not wanting to risk my vehicle being seen anywhere _near_ the place. Once it becomes clear that someone is targeting Richard John Grayson, my name is _sure_ to pop up as your disgruntled ex. I can’t leave a single thread dangling or be even the slightest bit assured in my own abilities. So, a guise it is, and into the fire my clothes will go when I’m done, just in case I’m seen and your pals at the BPD search my digs. And yes, _guapo,_ I have the patience and ability and abode to maintain a fire of that heat and magnitude with total secrecy. I have oceans of patience, in fact, and very little better to do at this given time. I have rubber gloves, easily disposed of, and I have every intention of leaving no tracks behind me. It’s a solid twenty blocks to your apartment, but the walk is not too terrible in the spring weather. 

I take the backest of the back alleys, sticking to lowest-traffic areas, all the dark nooks by the buildings, every shadowy spot. As mentioned, I can’t risk being seen, regardless of the disguise I’ve selected — broad daylight and all. Even if I fit in with ninety-five percent of the denizens of Blüdhaven, an unknown stalking around an apartment building just before it’s blasted to kindling will garner retrospective attention. 

I shift into the basement of the building via the loose baseboards that line the outer foundations of the west alley, out of range of any witnesses or windows. It’s the same little entry point that I used when I first planted the bomb two weeks ago. I make my way to the utility closet, the device’s current digs. The thing is wired to detonate in two days’ time — but I’m going to set it to blow in twenty minutes. Barbara will still be in the building, on the top floor. Oh, her London Bridge will be falling down, my fair lady — and plenty of tenants will still be present to appease Desmond’s vengeful wishes. 

I close the door behind me, pull up the floor tiles, and find my quarry. I make quick work of the rewiring — elementary, my dear Watson, this device is powerful, but simplistic at its core — and equally quick work of my exit. I don’t particularly want to stick around to watch the fireworks, since although I didn’t make any overt errors, there’s _always_ the possibility I ran amuck _somewhere._ And sorry, but I don’t plan on joining Barbara in the hereafter any time soon. 

I again take care not to be seen, ducking furtively through the alleys and back streets. As the daylight grows, I stick to trails through the wooded, scraggly, unkempt metropark that stands like a bastion of Blüdhaven’s efforts _not_ to be a total shithole before emerging in the back corner of my own neighborhood. I’ve left no definitive tracks, sticking to the grassier, detritus-ridden edges of the paths, and I leave none as I walk along the asphalt of the streets to my house. 

The second I shut my door, the entire earth rattles beneath my feet, shaking the blinds, lampshades, and hanging pictures — as though the clicking of the knob was the button pressed to blow your apartment building, and fiancée, to smithereens. 

I smile. 

_Adios, puta._

xxxxx 

You are beautiful when caught in the throes of sparkling, incendiary, raw emotion, _hermoso._ Truly beautiful. Every bit as captivating and dangerous to look upon as the bubbling, molten, glowing lavas of the Hawaiian volcanoes, every inch as breathtaking as the graceful rope of a tornado as it dances over the earth. And likely, you are just as deadly, your fatal hand only stayed by your hero’s heart. 

You fly at Blockbuster with an enraged, inarticulate shout, the sound hoarse and strangled, fraught with so much _feeling_ that it’s almost musical, its notes laden to the brim, evocative of decades of rage and pain and anguish brought to a crescendo in this moment. Even in the midst of this pulsing, unthinking fury, you are balletic as ever, twining about Desmond’s enormous body, an acrobat around an especially thick corde lisse. 

You’ve gotten your answers — well. _Some_ of your answers. And perhaps not how you expected to have them clinched for you, bought with Lonnie Machen’s blood, brains, and skull fragments which litter the ground below, spent by Desmond’s shocking bullet that came whizzing from the shadows when you least suspected. Now, distraught and covered in an innocent’s blood and viscera, you’re out for _Blockbuster’s_ blood — swords drawn and guns a-blazin’. Well, maybe not guns or swords, since you’re you, and regardless of what the situation might be, murder simply isn’t your style. But I have a feeling that if you get your hands on dear Roly-Poly, his fat head will be separated from his slab of a neck by your bare hands alone when you at last lapse in the control you barely hold over yourself. 

_Pobrecito._ You have truly had a nightmarish time over the last sixteen hours or so. And now look at you, all but spewing a pyroclastic cloud as you rush at Blockbuster, swiftly taking the fight to the tracks, the train yard, and finally all the way to the top of the Red Line station’s roof. You are ablaze with an untrammeled rage, a roaring forest fire spreading unchecked across everything in its path. 

The apartment building blew without incident — ah, the footage brought a tear to my eye, when I turned on the news to keep tabs on how my handiwork was unfolding. Unfortunately, our darling Barbara suffered little more than a dislocated shoulder, a concussion, a light smattering of burns and contusions, some concussive hearing loss in one ear, and broken ribs — all of these injuries compounded by her paraplegia. But she’s alive, perfectly cognizant and even feeling well enough to be irritable about her current physical circumstances and surely protracted hospital stay. She even cracked a joke that she ought to join you in your current goals not to land in RABE again for a while, since the both of you are presently two for two. 

(You, of course, are having a total meltdown.) 

The bitch ought to be grateful, though, honestly. She ought to be called _Cat_ girl. I swear she has nine lives — at this rate, I’ll have to attempt killing her six more times in order for it to stick. She _should_ have died — _twice,_ now, three times if you count her little confab with the clown _—_ and had she just done what she was _supposed_ to do, that being stay in the damn apartment instead of going down a couple of floors to do fucking _laundry,_ well, let’s just say she’d have flown off to the big computer lab in the sky for sure. But her winding up in the hospital for the second time in as many weeks had something close to the desired effect, at least — you have elected to separate yourself from Barbara for a time in order to ensure that your disgruntled enemy stops targeting her. You refused to stay with Wally and Artemis on the same grounds in light of your brand new homelessness, and you have also opted out of the manor, Jason’s safehouse, _and_ Gannon’s apartment. You are going to stay — ha, ha — at the police station, utilizing its nap rooms as a temporary measure until you can bring in Blockbuster. 

Because you traced it to Blockbuster. Amy did, too. 

And oh, the lid came off your identity, _guapo._ Amy knows who you are — damn well who you are. Partly how she came to tie the whole thing to Blockbuster, incidentally — since Desmond told Lonnie Machen, our dear head blogger for _Sons of Anarky_ , your civilian identity… which he then paid the poor, now deceased kid to give to Rohrbach. Goodbye, police career that you adore so much, are we right? Salt in the wound, kicking you while you’re down, stomping on your head while you’re drowning. That was Desmond’s idea, anyway. 

But Amy apparently had a different reaction than Desmond anticipated, since you’re still, by all evidence, employed by the BPD, and you and Amy are in perfect accord that Blockbuster is the perpetrator behind this whole mess, both of you determined now to bring him to swift justice — to hell with the impending trial date. It’s time to gain enough proof to bring old Roly-Poly in _immediately_ in connection with the blast and with the fire — rather than allow him to continue running amok throughout the Blüd, slaughtering every human being you so much as say hi to on the street or hold the door for. But for you, the first step was Machen. 

You confronted Anarky in the full Nightwing regalia (you keep extras, along with other supplies, in little cache locations all across the city — how have you not thought to utilize or build a safehouse, though?), under the lure that you wished to discuss his acquired knowledge of your identity with him. Which, naturally, led to you asking the hard questions immediately upon first encountering Lonnie… who was paying him, and why were they after you? 

You are angry, _querido._ Clearly, you were not in the mood to make nice or play games in that moment. You were approachable enough, but your posture was plain to read — impatient, tense, bordering on cornered and desperate. It impacted Lonnie significantly. 

I sat by, sheltered in the shadows within earshot as so much of my life has been spent over the last day, listening in, waiting for my own time to come, knowing Roland was nearby doing the same. You implored Machen not to go public with your identity even if he was threatened or paid — begging him to understand the ramifications of such a thing, if all of your enemies as Nightwing came to learn who you were behind the mask. You brought up the Mendozas, the Puerto Rican family next door to you, two of whom were killed in the blast at the apartment, that Amygdala, the same ex-Arkham inhabitant you’re now pals with and Machen did a blog post on, could very well have died, too. 

Finally, the kid admitted that he _was_ under payment and threats alike — the fear and paranoia easy to garner from his voice even a ways off in my hidden perch. 

“Listen, Lonnie,” you said gently, your voice schooled into its kindest, most comforting and inviting intonation, “I can _help_ you. I can _protect_ you — I can. But I have to know who’s behind this, first — I need to know where to look. Please.” Your arms spread plaintively. “I _need_ you to tell me. I promise I’ll keep you sa —” 

The word didn’t even fully leave your mouth before there was a muffled _pop_ and Lonnie’s body crumpled, half his head missing, part of it spattered across your face and the front of your uniform. Even you, a seasoned police officer and vigilante, were utterly shocked, freezing in place in stark, open-mouthed horror at the gore splashed like red watercolor all over you. I _saw_ the tremor as it overtook your form, chattering your teeth and stuttering your breathing. You breathed the word _no_ more times than I could count, and fell to your knees in the bloody mess like a despairing monastic, your arms impotent at your sides. 

It was then Blockbuster chose to make his appearance, stepping out of the darkness of the alley, the gun literally smoking in his hand. 

“You had to ask, Dick?” he stated. “As ever, you are a colossal disappointment.” 

You rose, your shoulders arching, your posture immediately going on the offensive, a bird of prey about to spring into flight. 

_“Why?”_ you shrieked, gesturing furiously at Lonnie’s poor, dead body. “Why him? Why the _circus?_ Why the _apartment — for Christ’s sake, there were children there — at both places —”_

“It’s simple, Dick,” Blockbuster said. “You didn’t save my mother, did you? Convenient that you were there, and you failed to save her… wasn’t it? Given our history.” 

“Roland, _I tried —”_

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Desmond cut you off sharply. “You didn’t _want_ to try hard enough. It’s your fault she’s dead — and you and I are both well aware of this uncomfortable truth, even if _one_ of us doesn’t want to admit it. But here’s the rub, little Dickie Grayson, Officer of the Law, First Hero to Blüdhaven, _Nightwing_ — you can take any knockdown you’re given, can’t you? You’re _trained_ to take a good pounding — hell, I think you might even _like_ it. I can smash you into kindling a thousand times over — and what good will _that_ do? You’re like a beaten, unwanted dog — you’ll just keep coming back, and you’ll remain undeterred, even if I break every last bone in your body, stab every last inch of your flesh, drain every last drop of your blood. So how else am I to _hurt_ you, Dick? How else am I to ensure you feel what _I_ feel?” 

Your chest swelled, and you ripped the Kali sticks from their holsters, charging them into full power until they burned a brilliant blue. “You think you’re the only one of us who lost their mom, Desmond — _my mother was fucking murdered right in front of me, you goddamn bastard!”_

(You made a fair point — and it _is_ a little surprising that Roly-Poly never thought to consider that maybe you understood what he was going through, and that perhaps your shared heartache was a perfect opportunity for the two of you to bond and part ways as unlikely friends.) 

Desmond chuckled, opening his mouth to reply, but you were all over him at that point — a trapped, vicious animal at last unleashed, all teeth and claws and snarls and unbridled bloodlust. Again. Beautiful. 

And now, there you are — up on the station’s roof. I watch, keeping time, keeping track. Smoke bombs go off in multi-colored plumes, sparks fly, flashes detonate. Blows are exchanged, the battle charged and electric, rippling unseen waves of energy through the night air, already loaded with impending rain. 

The rain comes in a magnificent burst after a blast of lightning. When Blockbuster hurls you through the door leading to the stairwell, I shoulder the assault rifle, and walk, unhurried, to the building, making my way in through a window. It’s unmanned at the moment, not a guard or employee in sight. No cameras reach this portion of the building, either — they are all trained on the platforms and depots, taking little interest in this two-tiered edifice at this time of night. No trains are running, and will not run for another four hours. Call me Domino, for Lady Luck is on my side. 

I park it on the bottommost flight of stairs, well hidden within the thick, murky shadows. I hear you as you tumble violently to the landing just above me, breaking up your fall in tumbles and cartwheels, coming now into sight. You slam to your side on the slab of concrete to immediately spring to your feet, the motion the slightest bit shaky in your rage-fueled overexertion. Breathing heavily, pouring blood from a thousand wounds, sporting dozens of lurid, blossoming bruises, and favoring your left leg, you stubbornly lift your Kali sticks, the blue glow lighting up the dimly lit, greenish stairwell. Your mask is missing, presumably torn from your face. Quietly as possible, I release the safety on my weapon. 

Blockbuster menacingly advances down the stairs toward you, each step a loud, echoing report from a giant timpani. He’s breathless and bloody and bruised about his face, too. Have you expended all the toys in your utility belt, I wonder? I position the rifle against my shoulder, and ready myself. The damn thing is going to kick like a draft horse. 

“Look at you,” Desmond growls, a sick, sneering smile distorting his ugly features. “I hit you, and hit you, and hit you — and here you are, raring for more. That's the secret, the essential truth of your nature… I said it before, I’ll say it again.” _Thump. Thump._ “You could take every beating I dish out. You might even _enjoy_ them. You _do_ enjoy them, don’t you? You have absolutely no regard for your personal safety. But the people around you — well, that's a different matter.” The smile widens. “Isn't it?” _Thump._ “I swear…” _Thump,_ “on my mother’s grave…” _Thump,_ “I'll take out the people you care about, every last one of them — hell, even strangers you stand next to on the street. You won't be able to shake someone's _hand_ without marking them for death.” _Thump._ Your breathing quickens, your breath rattling in your chest, blood spraying from your nostrils. “Do you like being alone, Dick? I'll make _sure_ you can't save any of them… Loved one by loved one, innocent by innocent... It'll never stop. I'm never going to stop. I can keep this up forever.” 

“So can I,” you hiss, “so _bring it,_ asshole —” 

And as Desmond moves down the step, and you rush forth in response, I choose _this_ moment to step into the light. When Roland abruptly halts in his descent, looking past you to me, you draw up, and chance a look over your shoulder. I see the shock and confusion cross your face, the expressions flickering intermittently across your handsome features, now bruised and bloodied. Your hair is damp and stringing across your forehead, sticking to your cheeks and jaw. Your eyes are vividly blue, supernaturally ablaze in the light from the Kali sticks. Your chest leaps and falls with your fevered breathing as you look askance at me, then turn your gaze to Desmond. 

“‘Will you walk into my parlour,’ said the Spider to the Fly, ‘'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;...’” I state by way of greeting into the thunderous silence, and then I step forth, angling the rifle against my shoulder. “‘The way into my parlour is up a winding stair; And I've a many curious things to show when you are there.’” 

“A slightly precipitate appearance made by the Spider, indeed,” Blockbuster remarks, his face splitting into a hideous grin. “Tell me, Tarantula — what is your intended play, here?” 

I allow for a moment of quiet, and aim the rifle. Right at Desmond… through you. 

“Get down, _mi querido,”_ I order you. 

Comprehension dawns on your face in that moment, even as the same understanding comes over Blockbuster’s twisted features in a shroud of pyretic betrayal. 

“Ah. I see what this is,” he whispers in an ululating growl, his eyes glinting in the blue light, his fists clenching, his slab-jaw setting. “Oh, I see what this is. What lengths you’ll go to, Tarantula… what lengths, indeed.” He shakes his head. “Hell truly hath no fury.” 

“Dick,” I repeat, _“mi amor._ Get down. Now.” 

“He never will, Catalina,” Desmond murmurs with a sadistic triumph. “For all you believe you know him… He will _never_ allow you to kill me. Never. He himself will take the shot for me, ending his own life in his eternal, boundless sense of sanctimony before he would see me killed by your hand — or that of any other. Take the shot. See if I’m wrong.” 

I heft the weapon, aiming straight at the broad, easy target of Desmond’s vulnerable forehead, through your own from this angle. 

_“Cariño,”_ I whisper, _“andale. Muévelo.”_

You hold my gaze for the briefest moment, millions of unspoken words passed between us, a holy communion of understanding and unity. 

And then you turn, and lower yourself, going to your knees on the stairs, prostrate now before me — clearing my path. 

_Buen chico._

Good boy. 

Before Desmond can speak, before you can realize what it is you’ve done, before you can leap to take it back… I pull the trigger. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guapo: Handsome, good-looking  
> Maldita bruja: Damn witch  
> Que chingados: What the fuck  
> En llamas: In flames  
> Mierda: Shit  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Ninguna: None  
> Querido: Darling, dear (lover)  
> El vomito: Barf  
> Adios, puta: Bye, bitch  
> Hermoso: Handsome  
> Pobrecito: Poor baby  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Carino, andale. Muévelo: Honey, come on. Move it   
> Buen chico: Good boy


	22. Said the Spider to the Fly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo!
> 
> Wow, what an exhausting chapter... like... even more than the fire at the circus, ha ha. XD I sped the police process up a little for the sake of the story--odds are, evidence of an incendiary device might not have been uncovered for a few days/weeks/etc., as opposed to the timeframe presented here. Still, it's a fictitious universe, and we can pretend that the responding fire investigators and bomb squad found the remnants this quickly. XD YEAH FICTION! XD <\-- (Jesse Pinkman voice)
> 
> (It's only one time, right??)
> 
> Rough one, I will say. TRIGGER WARNING: references to death of a child and much violence inbound. The rest of the story is rough, I'm afraid, so let's buckle up and get ready for it, I guess...
> 
> (Why do I this I hate myself)
> 
> I'd say enjoy, but... yeeeeahhhh. XD Still, much love, y'all! <3 ^_^ Spanish to English at the end!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF

**CHAPTER 22**

“Well, how are things going, Dickie?” 

I muster a smile as I drop the pile of manila folders on Mat’s desk. “Well, they’re certainly going, how about you?” 

He gives me a pointed look. “You know what I’m asking, _hermano._ How are you holding up after everything? I’m honestly surprised you’re back at work so soon.” 

“Oh…” I frown, and stifle the image of the fire as it dances across my mind’s eye. My burns, still healing, tighten as I gather myself to respond. “Well… I think my brother put it best. You can waste time crying and doing nothing, or you can cry and do something of use at the same time.” I sigh. “I need to work, Mat.” 

He smiles kindly, and leans back in his chair. “Well, I understand that one, _mi amigo,_ but that wasn’t quite what I meant,” he says, his tone warm. “You were hurt, weren’t you? Hospitalized?” 

“Oh, that —” I shake my head dismissively, “it wasn’t anything real serious, dude. Just a couple burns and some smoke inhalation.” 

Mat snorts. “Oh, nothing real serious, _tipo,_ he says. Just some burns and smoke inhalation, he says! Dear God, man — you must have either have some serious thrill issues or a guardian angel that _really_ likes you.” 

I grin at him. “Both, probably. But hey, man, I’m _almost_ back to normal — just got some pretty killer marks on my back to add to the one Blockbuster gave me on my abs. And I might have been wheezing like Eddie Kaspbrak through my cardio workouts for a few days there…” I grimace, and then go somber. “Honestly… it hurts way more on the inside, you know?” 

He nods. “I’d imagine so, Dickie.” He gives a bit of a sigh. “I’d imagine so.” 

I force myself to brighten. “But other than that, I’m at least all good now, nothing to report. Besides, scars are sexy, right? Kind of in a John Rambo type way?” 

“RABE needs to have a room on reserve for you,” Mat chuckles. “You’ve been taking it up the ass from Mr. Murphy on all sides lately.” 

I laugh. “Yeah, I should probably just start paying rent there.” 

He nods. “Blockbuster, Firefly… More supervillains than I ever want in my city at one time. Hopefully we can nail both of them —” He slams a fist into his palm, “ _soon.”_

“Amen to that. Need anything else before I head out on AM patrol?” 

“Just keep at this Blockbuster thing first and foremost,” Mat tells me. “The sooner he’s indicted, the sooner we can get all the cops in his pocket out of our hair, and the sooner we can actually get some _work_ done.” 

I give him a salute, and turn to leave. 

Right about then, the entire building rattles on its foundations — the walls shaking and furniture bouncing. The door totters on its hinges. Mat’s diploma loosens itself from its perch on the wall and crashes atop the laminate floor. It’s a brief shake, but powerful — indicative of a sizeable explosion nearby. I ready myself — that usually means it’s time for League work, and the time might very well have come to attempt being two people at the same time without giving myself away. 

“Shit — _que chingados —”_ Mat leaps to his feet. “Was that an explosion?” 

“Felt like it,” I say, already on my way out the door. “Stay there, Mat.” 

I sprint across the street to the station, looking for signs of smoke. My heart falters in my chest when I see the blossoms of darker gray against the cloudy morning sky off in the distance — the blooms of smoke appear to be right in position to be somewhere near my apartment building. I slow, staring in an effort to pinpoint the more exact location of the smoke’s origins. It’s already dispersed in the riotous wind off the water nearby, and as I study it from my stance smack in the middle of the road, I nearly get slammed by a car turning onto the street. I spring into a quicker step to rush inside the station and yank my cell out of my pocket to dial Barbara. 

It might be that somewhere _near_ my apartment building was hit, and the building wasn’t affected — 

I swallow a curse when Barbara’s phone cuts to voicemail, ordering myself _not_ to start freaking out just yet. I’m on the clock, and I’ve got to go by work’s rules for the time being — no donning the black and blue and valiantly rushing at once to the scene. I rush toward my desk, where Gannon stands at his own workstation, adjoining mine. I ignore the pangs of worry and fear as the phones start ringing, audible from the dispatch room. Amy’s voice comes over the intercom. 

“All hands on deck, officers, standby for further instruction,” she orders. “Patrolling officers have been dispatched and will perform initial assessments of the situation and report back.” 

“Man, want to bet we’ll get to see some JL action after _that_ rumble?” Gannon asks. “I swear, my _ancestors_ felt that one. I’m just going to pray for Green Arrow to show up…” 

I force humor. “What, you want to go for a ride on that dorky goatee of his?” 

He nudges my arm. “Well, I keep trying to convince Jason to grow one, but he’s staunchly maintained he’s going to keep shaving, so… if I want to get my goatee jollies on, who better than with Green Arrow? Guy’s a brick shithouse.” 

I can corroborate this firsthand, having trained with Ollie sans shirts a time or two. I don’t bring this up to Gannon, however, as that thread of conversation slips away from my attention and I try Barbara again. 

Straight to voicemail. 

“Shit,” I mutter. 

“What’s going on?” Gan asks. 

“I saw the smoke on my way over here from across the street,” I say, my hand sweating around the phone as I clutch it hard in my hand. “It was off in the direction of my apartment building. Barbara’s supposed to be at home and she’s not picking up.” 

“Oh, no,” Gannon murmurs. 

I clench my teeth, hit the redial, and try not to swear when, again, I get voicemail. 

“Fuck,” I growl, failing in my efforts. 

“Dick, I’m sure it’s fine,” he tells me. “Barb gets busy, you know that. That’s probably the only reason she’s not answering.” 

I can’t even nod as my pits and back start sweating, joining my hands. 

I have a bad feeling — a _bad_ feeling. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through vigilante and police work, these feelings don’t come about often — but they are always, always right. 

My stomach is in my throat, rendering my breath fitful and shallow. I look up, and fight myself into a state of tolerable calm, practicing the meditative breathing that Bruce, Dinah, and _so_ many mentors have taught me over the years. 

An indeterminate period goes by, spent waiting anxiously, knowing my hands are tied for now. It’s tempting, but it’s not like I can head out to respond to the scene myself without blowing my cover, something Barbara would _never_ forgive me for if everything turned out okay in the end and the suspected explosion was nothing more nefarious than a blown gas line or a nearby sonic boom. 

Finally, Turpin, the Assistant Chief of Police, comes into the room. 

“This is an all hands on deck situation,” he announces. “First off, we need to get to the location and establish a more effective perimeter. Next, it’s to assist survivors and look for injured — the blast was pretty powerful. We’re seeing collateral damage across the street from the bomb site already.” 

“So it _was_ a bomb?” Fregley asks. 

“That’s what it’s looking like, although you keep your mouth shut about that detail until it’s clinched, Fregley,” Turpin says. “The location will be provided to you by dispatch. Grayson, Chief Rohrbach wants to see you in her office. Now.” 

I frown at him, a lance of alarm shooting through me. I’m about to ask what the hell is going on when I hear Amy’s voice. 

“Corporal Grayson — come over here. Now.” 

I look over at her, and my guts sink when I see her expression as she leans out of her office, located in the back corner in a windowed alcove, to beckon to me. A wash of chill, hard numbness comes over me as I leave Turpin to make my way over, barely feeling my legs as I walk. 

“Dick, sit down,” Amy says immediately as I enter, before I can even open my mouth. 

“What’s going on —” 

“Just sit,” she states flatly. 

I obey, and seat myself in the chair across from her desk, turning to face where she stands at the door. I struggle to wrangle the mounting distress that twists like a frantic animal in my middle. “Okay… What’s up, doc?” 

She closes and locks her office door behind her and draws all the blinds on the windows. She stands in between me and the exit. I stare in mounting confusion and alarm. 

“Uh… Chief?” I ask, my heart now hammering, dread boiling in the pit of my stomach. This is looking terrifyingly as though she’s amping to inform me a loved one has died — 

_Please, please, please —_

I grit my teeth, and grip the armrests of my chair as her mouth opens and she speaks. 

“Dick, that explosion we felt originated from your apartment building,” she informs me. “Now listen, _don’t panic_ — we don’t know if there were any casualties yet, EMS is on its way —” 

Her words fall on ringing, unhearing ears as I leap to my feet. My heart flies into my throat and my knees go to water, barely supporting my weight. 

_Oh, Christ, Barbara —_

I can’t even _assimilate_ reality, integrate the implications of this awful information, consider the whys or hows of this event — I just fight to get a hold on the deadlock on the door behind Amy, not hearing her protests, not feeling her hands as they hinder my path out of her office. 

“Corporal Grayson, you _stand down now —_ that’s an order,” she snaps, bringing me momentarily back to the here-and-now. “You are _not_ leaving this station until otherwise directed, do you understand me?” 

My chest pulses wildly as my breath quickens into a feverish cadence, one hand swiping hers away as she reaches for me. When I speak, my voice is tremulous and loud. “Chief, for Christ’s sake — Barbara’s at home, I can’t just _sit_ around here and _wait for news —”_

“Dick, you _have_ to,” she barks, grabbing my arm and giving me a hard tug that I yank my way out of. “It’s for your protection —” She presses a hand to my chest, successfully this time, “your _protection._ I know what you’re feeling right now, but you go out there, and you’re _marked,_ you’re marked for _dead,_ you understand?” 

I gape askance at her, helpless and flummoxed, only thinking of Babs and my neighbors at this point, _needing_ to get past my boss and out of this fucking prison to _do_ something. “What —” 

“Sit. Down,” Amy orders. “ _Now.”_

When I still don’t obey, she hauls back and _shoves_ me into the chair, and stands over me with her arms crossed, blocking my way to the door, making it effectively clear that if I want to get out of this office, I’ll have to go through her first. However desperate I might be, I _don’t_ want to get into it with Amy. I give it a positively _enormous_ effort, and keep my butt planted in the seat to listen. 

“Listen. This morning I received an email,” she tells me. “It was via Guerrilla Mail, from someone calling himself Anarky. He had some information for me about your double life.” 

“What?” I gesture, leagues beyond distraught now. 

She continues. “I’m just going to cut to the chase, Corporal Grayson. I’ve known for a _long_ time who you are, what you get up to after hours.” 

“What are you _talking_ about —” 

“You’re Nightwing,” she says. “Don’t think I haven’t figured it out. Don’t think I hadn’t figured it out _months_ ago.” 

I fight for calm, frantically sifting through my sprinting thoughts for my cover story. 

“Chief —” 

She lifts a hand. “Stop. Don’t. You can’t lie to me from here, Dick — and not just because I’ve known who you are for months, but because it’ll only put you, and those around you, at further risk. The fact is, someone else knows who you are now — and they’re after you. To hurt you.” 

I decide to just shut up and let her state her piece, since _somewhere_ in my brain through the discordant mire of worry and fear I’ve come to the exact same conclusion. 

“In this email,” she says, “it was made very clear that this information about your alter-ego was fully intended to get you fired from the BPD, because your job here is _important_ to you. You _value_ it. And trust me, I know it is, and I know you do — I see it in your performance every day you’re here. You’re my best goddamn officer, Grayson. There’s a _reason_ I’ve opted to turn _one_ blind eye to the fact that a vigilante is working within my own department, and why that particular criminal’s job is _still_ safe with me. You understand what this knowledge would implicate for my own job?” 

I nod, my heart thundering, torn between terror for my fiancée and neighbors and gratitude and guilt toward my boss. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“I wouldn’t stick my neck out like that for just anyone, believe me. Anyhow, a line within the email stood out to me, one that makes me about a hundred and four percent sure that Roland Desmond is behind this targeting.” 

My guts sink even more. 

Oh, Christ, of course. Of _course._ It makes sense — it makes _perfect_ sense — and that’s another suspicion that’s swum around beneath the surface of my louder, more pressing, more here-centered thoughts. I sag, and press a hand to my forehead. 

This is too much. 

“It’s no secret that you — the same cop who’s responsible for Blockbuster’s present legal troubles — failed to resuscitate his mother recently,” Amy says, “and she’s just about the only person that he’d ever so much as bat an eyelash for. And it’s all over the media that his mother’s death has sent the giant bastard into a total tailspin.” Her frown deepens. “Not to mention the fact that the two of you have been at odds for a long time now, legal woes and his mother’s death aside. In any case… the fire at _your_ circus that seemed so random and without any motive, then this email out of the clear blue sky giving me incriminating details about _your_ secret life that would risk your job and your freedom, and now _your_ apartment building getting blown sky-high… Dick, _you_ are the common denominator. Someone — Blockbuster — is after you. He wants to _hurt_ you. And he’s succeeding.” Her posture stiffens. “So you are not leaving this building. You are not safe anywhere you go. Your enemy has hurt you — what’s the next step? Some of our own people have been implicated in having connections to Roland Desmond, and they’re all on site. For all I know, Dick, one of his cops is waiting for you to come to that scene, and has every intention of setting you up for an ambush. Until this situation becomes a little clearer and more certain, you _have_ to stay here. I’m sorry.” 

I can’t even respond, sick by now. I barely hear what Amy is saying at this point. The only things I can think of with any sort of focus are all those people, all those that were burned and injured, all who were traumatized or lost loved ones, all who _died —_

And it was because of _me._ Me. I am the cause of that horror, that tragedy. 

My fists clench. I squinch my eyes shut. My back itches under the unending trickles of sweat that tease my skin and my teeth grind near to breaking. 

So many have paid the ultimate price for even just being _near_ me. And now that vendetta has extended to my home address, its fingers reaching ever closer. 

The Mendozas, my next-door neighbors. Unbidden, the sound of their oldest son’s, the mother’s, my own voices filter into my ears, memories of only last week. 

_Dickie! Dickie, Mario Kart, Mario Kart, por favor!_

_Claro, chicos, un momento — ¿tienen hambre?_

_Tu eres tan amable, Dickie. ¿Qué haríamos sin ti?_

My heart hammers hard in my chest as more names fly through my thoughts. Aaron Helzinger downstairs, the former Arkham resident turned my friend and Lockhaven guard — 

Hank, my landlord — 

And I finally feel the dam break into splinters when the name that’s underlaid _everything_ up to now screams at an overpowering decibel, drowning out everything around me. 

Barbara. 

_Barbara._

I bury my face in my hands, my fingers pressing _hard_ into my hair. 

That apartment building was the primest trim because to hurt her would hurt me the absolute worst — and all too likely, she’s now paid the dearest cost just for her role in my life, revoltingly _dehumanized_ and used as a stake to be driven through my heart. My fists clench in my hair, pulling at handfuls of it, and I vow now to find Desmond and beat him to a fucking unrecognizable _pulp_ before hurling him at the higher authorities that will dump his twisted, disgusting ass in Belle Reve — a gentle reminder that Barbara is a fucking human being, that those around me are fucking human beings, not inanimate tools to be used in some emotional arsenal. 

If Bubba’s making pals with Desmond in the clink in the next few seconds, it won’t be soon enough. 

I jump to my feet, about to fly to pieces if I have to sit in this office for one more second. 

“Okay, I’m not going to lie anymore, Chief,” I exclaim. “You said you’ve known who I am for a while now, anyway — so apparently, there’s no point in trying. I’m sorry I lied to you, Amy — _I’m sorry._ I’m sorry I lied to my partner, I’m sorry I deceived this entire department — but listen. Whether Blockbuster’s targeting me or it was just a gas line exploded or a misunderstanding over a backfiring engine, I _can’t_ just hang back here when my loved ones’ and innocent people’s lives are in the balance — I _need_ to get out there, Chief. I _have_ to know if Barbara’s okay —” 

I break off, my chest heaving with my wild breathing. Amy gazes at me for a long series of moments, and finally releases a breath. She uncrosses her arms. 

“All right, then, Corporal Grayson,” she says quietly. “I have a feeling you might try flattening me to get out of this room, anyway — and I don’t like my odds against Nightwing. But I’m coming with you — you’re not approaching this by yourself. Doing so… it won’t end well. Even for you.” 

I just nod, already turning to the door, and we rush out of the station together. 

xxxxx 

I burst out of Amy’s vehicle at a sprint. 

The apartment is _leveled._ Flattened. It looks like a goddamn tornado hit it, and still worse, other buildings surrounding have taken damage. I rush toward the wreckage, breaking through the line of officers — coworkers, pals, or frenemies, depending — that have established a perimeter around the scene. 

My guts fall. It’s hard to believe that _anyone_ could have survived this. 

I _have_ to find Barbara — even if, and here my throat swells as it becomes home to my gorge, it’s piece by piece, I _have_ to find her, _have to know —_

“Grayson, you really shouldn’t be here,” Fregley snaps, grabbing two handfuls of my uniform shirt now, making an effort to thrust me back. I swipe his hands away as easily as swatting a fly — he’s just lucky I don’t equalize his crooked, two-faced, lying ass here and now. “You’re fucking targeted, you’re gonna get us all nailed —” 

“Back the hell off, Fregley.” Gannon appears like an avenging angel, taking my arm and tugging me away. I survey the smoking, burning rubble, hardly comprehending the sight, until Gannon gets me pulled aside. 

It’s organized chaos, five firetrucks, upwards of twenty cruisers, probably twelve ambulances, EMS and responders everywhere, the bomb squad and SWAT teams already sifting through the smoldering wreckage. The smoke takes me with a wrench back to the fire at the circus. 

Everything — _everything_ is gone — could _anything_ ever be salvaged from this — 

“Listen, Dick, Barbara’s in an ambulance, en route to RABE,” Gannon tells me. 

The world stops briefly as I halt, listening singleminded, loaded, waiting for more information, not quite daring to hope. 

He continues, “They said it’s nothing to sneeze at, but she _should_ be all right — so far. She was on the lee of the concrete wall in the laundry room — it literally _guarded_ her from the worst of the blast. Someone up there was looking out for her today.” 

I damn near pass out — the relief sends all the breath out of me, along with the strength in my legs. 

She’s alive. _She’s alive —_

Gannon lays a hand on my arm, steadying me as I stoop, exhaling and inhaling, my head whirling on my neck. His hold tightens as I gaze now in numb heartbreak and horror across the scattered, smoking remnants of the home I shared with Barbara, the sight finally _registering_ on a deeper level. Nothing seems to have been spared — nothing. My heart rips asunder beneath my ribs in a near palpable splash of hot lifeblood. To lose our home _hurts_ — but that loss is paltry and forgettable under the shadow of all the _people_ doubtless lost today. 

Gannon suddenly draws me to him and catches me in a hard, tight grip. I hurl my arms around him in turn, unthinkably, inexpressibly grateful for my partner’s unending presence and support. The familiar scent of his aftershave mitigates the stink of burning around us, acting as an anchor, tethering me to this plane. 

“Dick, I’m so sorry,” Gannon murmurs. “I’m so sorry, man.” 

I just cling to him, taking one breath, another, rallying and collecting myself. Finally, I withdraw, square my shoulders, and breathe out. 

“Okay,” I say, looking up at the cloudy sky, “okay.” 

Amy approaches us. Even as my heart burns in my chest, I pull my shit together — I _am_ a cop, every bit as much as the others here, and this is an emergency scene. I have to stay collected. Have to. There’s no other choice. 

“Chief, permission to cut out and take Grayson to RABE?” Gannon asks, words I barely hear as I study the wreckage, shifting gears. I see Aaron, seated outside an ambulance a short ways off, his face buried in his big hands. Beside him is Maria Mendoza, blackened and bloodied, and their youngest son Angel, his arm in a sling. My heart, already somewhere near my feet, falls further when I see that they are both crying — and neither the father nor the oldest son are anywhere to be found. 

I dislodge from Gannon and Amy to sprint over to them, every limb shivering with tectonic quakes, dread acidly roiling in my belly. Reaching Maria, she looks over at me, and just dissolves. 

“Dick,” she bawls, “Miguel… Alejandro… _los perdimos… se fueron…”_

I draw up short, decelerating as I come to stand in front of her. 

_Oh, God, no —_

“ _Dios mío, lo siento,”_ I breathe, having little else that I can possibly offer. “ _Lo siento —”_

She falls into me, and my heart sinking beneath the weight of this heartrending revelation, I just hold her close, extending my hold to Angel as he leans against my waist, holding back the tears that threaten to come, all the while feeling repulsively unworthy of being the one to hold them, comfort them. I have _no right —_ none. I am an intruder on their grief, and worse… 

This… all of it, it is _my_ fault, my responsibility, my burden. All that I touch now, I _burn_ — simply by virtue of being _myself._ I’m reaping what I’ve sown. I’ve run afoul of all the wrong enemies, time and time again, knowledge that roosts in this horrible moment. I’ve led a well-intended life that screams of its own evil — whatever good I meant to do, whatever good I _have_ done… it’s blackened into putrid, festering poison, branching out all across the landscape of my life. Good intentions… the road to hell is paved with them. And I’m seeing now what a terrible, painful path my good intentions have lain. 

Aaron stands, and envelops all of us in his gigantic, powerful arms. I hear him speaking, slowly issued, ragged words about Hank, his own neighbors downstairs. I cling to all of them, these survivors, wracked with guilt and self-condemnation, wishing with every fiber of my being that I could go back and just _take_ this blast for all of them. 

Amy and Gannon come up to us now, and quietly withdraw me from my neighbors, my friends. I give Mrs. Mendoza’s and Aaron’s hands a last squeeze, Angel’s shoulder a final press, and join my partner and boss. 

“You ready, Dickie?” Gannon asks. 

I nod. Speaking, my voice has a husky, tinny quality, weak and forced. “Thanks for doing this, Gan.” 

“Of course.” 

“Grayson, a minute?” Amy says, and although I’m anxious to get to my fiancée, I allow her to take me aside. 

We stand a little ways off from the carnage and tumult, out of earshot of any officers. 

“Listen, Dick,” she murmurs. “The squad found definitive remnants of an explosive device planted in the building — it _was_ foul play. But we haven’t officially or forensically tied it to Blockbuster — not yet. So even if there’s not a doubt in either of our minds it was him, you _wait_ to go after him, and you go after him as Corporal Grayson. Understand?” 

There’s a pause. I can’t respond to these words, because I can’t promise Amy a goddamn thing. 

“And when you do…” Amy continues after a moment, “you use your badge — _and_ your weapon.” Her gaze intensifies as she holds mine. “This time, the law gives you more freedom than the mask. Because it’s behind you if you pursue him as an officer — whatever you do. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” 

I’m silent, allowing the implications of her words to sink in. My gut turns, whipped by an invisible paddle. 

Finally, I nod — indicating I understand what she’s telling me. 

But again, I can’t promise Amy a single thing. Because when I take the final step to approach Blockbuster, and I _will_ be coming after him the second I leave RABE — the only thing I can swear to do is make him _hurt_ before I hurl him bleeding and broken into Belle Reve. 

And right now, it’s first things first. I need to get to Barbara, reassure myself that she’s as alive as Gannon has promised me, make sure she’s out of harm’s way, ditto all of my loved ones — and then find this Anarky, whoever he is (I’ll bet my BPD dress uniform hat that it’s not, in fact, Desmond himself, but rather, Lonnie Machen — something of a friend, rendering him another perfect tool to use against me, and the head writer of the blog _Sons of Anarky…_ either Lonnie didn’t pick an inspired alias, or — if my theory proves correct — Blockbuster _wanted_ me to know it was him), and a, make sure he’s _safe,_ and b, clinch beyond a reasonable doubt Blockbuster’s involvement in this unfathomable mess. Moreover, I need to _keep_ “Anarky” from going public with my identity, if that’s next on this list of hypothetical things he might be hired or strong-armed into doing — stop him from worsening this already catastrophic situation by bringing all of my high-powered enemies (and I’ve made a fair few in my day) in on my dangerous secrets. 

Amy jars me somewhat back to reality when she asks if I have somewhere to stay. Christ — I’m legitimately homeless, for real a transient with nothing to his name, all in the matter of a moment. I have my phone, my wallet, the clothes on my back, the spare uniform in my locker at work, and Nightwing suits in safe caches I keep throughout the city. I take a breath, and mention I’ll probably just stay in the nap rooms at the station if that’s all right with her. She nods, agreeing that it’s likely the safest place for the time being, at least until Blockbuster is dealt with. 

The words are sinister — implicating more than just bars. I grit my teeth, awash in a mire of conflicting emotions, and an iron resolve that hardens by the second. 

Amy urges me not to go anywhere alone, to operate strictly under a buddy system, as I wordlessly leave her side and go to Gannon, my heart hammering in my throat, my brain sprinting at a thousand miles per hour. And still unspeaking, my partner leads me to the cruiser, and we leave the scene for RABE. 

xxxxx 

I stand on the corner by the Red Line Station, waiting for Lonnie Machen. 

Tracing “Anarky” wasn’t difficult. The kid’s a very decent hacker — in fact, he’ll go places with the right tutelage. However, he doesn’t have the experience yet to outdo my own prowess (not dusting my knuckles or anything), and I made my way into his machines (by way of the holographic computer that goes with me everywhere) without a lot of ceremony. 

As I surfed his machine, I discovered that within hacker forums, his username is, indeed, Anarky, much like the title of his blog, and spelled in the same manner as the name left on the email that Amy received. Coincidence? Doubtful. 

Deeper probing firmed him up as Amy’s informant. However, there was no documentation on his machines linking him specifically to Blockbuster. But that didn’t mean Desmond wasn’t the source of the information, and nor did it mean Machen wasn’t strong-armed into sending the email. 

That aside, the action of sending Amy an email to give my nighttime habits away defies logic — Lonnie and I have come to know each other somewhat over the years, having built up a companionable rapport through interviews and photo ops for _Sons of Anarky._ I could never believe that he would voluntarily sell me out, even if the information regarding my identity was a one way ticket to viral stardom. 

And if he were forced to do this once, Lonnie could very well become something of a puppet for Desmond in the future, an arm to twist into performing all sorts of misdeeds. At this point, Lonnie is an innocent kid in a very dangerous position — beholden to the wrong villain, and privy to info that places him in grave peril from multitudes of other wrong villains. Finding the info to link Machen to Amy’s email, I knew I needed to act immediately — not just for the safety of my loved ones, but for his, as well. 

I left a message on Lonnie’s desktop — making it clear who I was, that I knew who he was, and that I knew he was the one who had tipped off the BPD Chief of Police to my identity. I equally left a place and time, making it just as clear that he could meet me there, or I’d just show up unannounced on his doorstep. 

Nightwing might be the nominate representation of a noble hero — but that doesn’t mean the name fails to strike fear in the hearts of those that might double cross him. I know Machen will be here, not wanting to run afoul of me anymore than of Desmond. And unlike Blockbuster — I want to see Lonnie _safe_ at the end of the day, and my loved ones with him. 

The Red Line Station is shut down at this hour — not a soul in sight, not a worker, not a commuter, no one. It’s also eerie and silent at this time of night, and not the easiest to access across bridges and steps. It’s a reasonable place to meet in secrecy, removed from the larger hubbub of Blüdhaven, a decent contender for the task at hand. All I need is to counteract my enemy and convince Lonnie to agree not to go any further with my identity, and to point the finger at who tipped him off and coerced him into emailing Amy. In turn, I’ll protect him — with my teeth and claws if necessary. 

I have, as mentioned, made a fair few enemies in my day — I _have_ to entertain the possibility that another of them got their mitts on my ID and proceeded to go to town with it at the most coincidental of times, that the wording in the email was equally coincidental. But if it isn’t Desmond pulling the strings here, I’ll eat the same hat I’d have wagered on Lonnie being Anarky — and when I just get those words that firm it up enough for me to proceed, there will be a reckoning, a rumble the likes of which Blüdhaven has never seen. The iron resolve within me has gone adamantium hard, forged in the fires of my rising fury. By the end of tonight, only one of us will remain on the streets, straight-up _Highlander_ style. Blockbuster will rot in jail — or I’ll kill my damn self to put him there. 

There is so much — _so much —_ _too_ much to sort through, far more than I can hope to process over the course of my entire life, let alone in any sort of present tense. The losses are incogitable, piled and condensed into a writhing mass of heartbreak and guilt. All those that died in the fire at the circus, those who were injured and maimed, those who suffered the terror and trauma of the horrific event, those who lost their loved ones to the blaze and horror. Jason and Barbara were hurt in that fire, and I could just as easily have lost my friends, brothers, and godchildren, my circus family, Zitka. Nightmares of alternate endings to that horror haunt me nightly, crop up every time my healing burns tug and prickle as I pull on my shirt in the morning. Even the bare loss of Firefly melting into who-knows-where, free and uncaught, stunting the official investigation, rankles and aches. 

And now, I’ve lost friends, neighbors, loved ones — a sort of soul family I’d built around myself living in that apartment building since starting at the BPD. I can’t believe that Alejandro — not even ten years old — is gone, snuffed for no goddamn reason at all, his life cut appallingly, tragically, unfairly short. Thoughts of him are crushing fists around my heart, squeezing the blood and life from it, threatening to reach up and drag me under to drown beneath the sorrow. Just last week Alejandro was on my couch while Barbara and I kept an eye on him and his brother while their mother ducked out to run some errands, playing _Mario Kart,_ joyfully remonstrating at his brother, Babs, and me as we played, later telling me all about school and soccer and begging me to perform silly contortionist moves, something that amused him and Angel to no end. And Miguel Mendoza, easily the hardest working man I’ve ever met (and considering the men I’ve grown up with, that’s saying something), working his way through Blüdhaven U, learning English, and busting his chops to achieve his goals for his family — he’s been wrested from his wife and oldest son right along with Alejandro. It’s more loss than I can comprehend, the pain systemic and filtering through my entire body like a rampant infection. 

Hank was severely injured in the blast, joining the ranks of injured that somehow survived, and heartsick, I counted the casualties well into the double digits. More than a hundred people have died in total — for no apparent reason other than to _hurt_ me. 

Well, congratulations, Desmond. You’ve been extremely successful. 

This incenses me into only a more powerful volcano of burgeoning rage. How could this have happened? How could I have not known, not been _aware_ the device was planted, not thought to more carefully cover my bases and _hearken_ to what Barbara had said about being targeted as Dick Grayson? 

And there it is, folks, the coup de grace — all over again, I very nearly lost my fiancée. 

I sat beside her sleeping form at RABE all afternoon, her hand clasped in mine, the diamond on her engagement ring cruelly catching the light, taunting me with what I once more almost lost. How many times would I sit by her bed like this, I wondered in a moment of black, bitter despair and nauseating guilt, how many times would I be emasculated and reduced to praying, hoping, and waiting, because I had _as always_ failed to return Barbara’s ultimate favor of having my back in every situation imaginable? She had pulled me out of the most unbelievable quagmires of catastrophic scenarios, saved my life so many times it would take weeks to detail them all — and here I was, once again, just sitting beside her too little, too late because I flunked the ultimate tests. 

When she came to, I _at last_ burst into tears to see her eyes open. I couldn’t restrain them any more than I could have stopped a barreling freight train, the floodgates opening beneath the overpowering swell of onus and grief. Barbara, even groggy and a little confused at first, immediately reached for me, responding to my emotions, drawing me near to her with the one arm that was free of a sling. I held her tight to me, _cleaving_ to her, mindful of her injuries, but desperate to _feel_ her nearness, reassure myself that she was warm and alive, that I hadn’t lost her. 

She kissed my hair, stroked it, ran a hand up and down my back. 

“Babe, don’t do this,” she whispered to me, her voice thin and tired, but forceful. “Don’t.” 

I sobbed my apologies over and over, a tearful litany, the anguish a mushroom cloud that ballooned in my chest. 

“Dick, sweetheart, you _need_ to quit doing this — taking responsibility, I mean,” she told me firmly. “It wasn’t your fault — _none_ of it was your fault.” She drew away, and clasped my wet cheek with her hand. “Understand?” 

I shook my head, barely articulating through my hitching chest. “Barbara — this isn’t — you’re _hurt —”_

“Babe, _I’m fine_ — a little rattled and half-deaf, but I’m _all right._ Okay?” She tightened her hold on my cheek. “I mean, I can’t lie… it’s just a _bit_ disconcerting to have a wall blow up in your face while you’re putzing unsuspecting with a load of laundry, not to mention I’m pretty sure my chair is somewhere off in Timbuktu, since it totally got shot out from underneath me… but I still have my teeth and my upper back, last I checked. I mean, that’s something, right?” 

Her tone, the exhausted but determined facetiousness in it, pulled a weak chuckle from me, enabling me to dial back the tears somewhat. We held one another in silence for a while before speaking again. 

There’s a flash of lightning a ways off over the skyline across the water, and I sigh, thinking on the entire exchange with Barbara, the exchange that led me to where I stand now — stag, unattended, just me and my shadow. 

In defiance of Amy’s urgings not to go it alone, that’s precisely what I am going to do. Fly solo. And I have every intention of remaining this way, on my own, a risk only to myself until I can bring Blockbuster to justice. 

I can’t continue to risk others just by proximity. I can’t bring harm to one more person. I can’t be responsible for one more death. And right now, I need to ensure the safety of those around me, starting with Lonnie, before I track down Desmond. 

I clench my teeth, my fists tightening at my sides, as Barbara’s words reverberate through my skull. 

_You can’t blame yourself for this Dick, you didn’t plant that explosive, you didn’t wire it —_

_None of this is your fault, you need to stop taking responsibility for things you have no control over, please, babe, don’t blame yourself —_

… _Dick. Please. Don’t._

We talked for a long time after we’d both cried ourselves out (it was Babs’ turn when her calm facade finally crumbled, the walls going down under the retrograde response to the trauma of the event and the awful knowledge of all who had died), sharing our heartbreak and grief. As we both calmed into a numb exhaustion following the outpouring, we turned halfheartedly to venting frustration over the endless sojourns in this miserable hospital, griping about the scratchy sheets and lousy food. Then, uncomfortably, we discussed the events themselves, the fire and the bomb blast — and what they might implicate for both of us. 

Neither of us wanted to break it off in an effort to ensure Barbara’s safety, however colossal the risk of remaining tied to one another seemed on the surface — the fact remains, ending it “for her protection” would be nothing but ineffective, period. She’s already been marked as a knife to twist in my heart, no matter what our relationship status might be — a breakup wouldn’t carry a gram of importance to Desmond. He’d see it exactly for what it was — a valiant, selfless effort to protect the woman I love. 

But I’ve come to know Roland Desmond, his MO, his habits — these attacks are amping toward one end. A confrontation. I _don’t_ want Barbara to be caught in those particular crosshairs when the time comes, and nor do I want any of my loved ones to find themselves there with her. I’ve told Gannon to keep his distance, ditto all my friends, teammates, and family that extended a helping hand when they heard about my newfound homelessness — until Blockbuster is caught. Gannon is staying with Jason in Gotham for the time being, and Jim, upon his arrival at the hospital, fervently agreed that he wouldn’t let Babs out of his sight as she recovered. 

“Dick,” he murmured to me just before I left the hospital, “I know Babs has probably told you this already. But this… none of it’s your fault. None of it. Men like us… we’re always going to make dangerous enemies. But _we_ are not responsible for what _they_ do, or how they decide to act — all we can do is respond in the best way possible, that will keep our loved ones safe and bring those enemies to justice.” 

“This is the best way, Jim,” I assured him, then half-heartedly joked, “…You actually might want to back off a few feet until Desmond’s rounded up, now I think on it.” 

He gave me a half-smile under his mustache. “You just come home at the end of all this, Dick.” 

I keep those words in mind, taking them to heart, determined to fulfill them. It hurt as Barbara held me, and I held her before I said goodbye — _god,_ it hurt. I can’t stand to be more than ten feet away from her even on good days, and to be forced into remaining physically and emotionally distant is a sharp enough blade that, in some way, Desmond remains successful in twisting that proverbial knife into every spot that counts. 

I sigh as again, I hear Barbara’s voice. 

_Maybe you’re right. But you need to be looked after, too, sweetheart. And who’s going to do that if you shut everyone out —_

Lonnie appears from behind the corner of the station building, his footfalls not quiet, announcing his presence and jarring me out of my dark thoughts. In the Nightwing garb rather than my police uniform (the only other option I have at this point is my underwear), I square my shoulders and cross my arms. 

As an aside, after the events of this morning, I’ve decided I’m going to have to follow in Jason’s footsteps and create multiple safehouses that will actually facilitate _living_ in them. 

The decision to approach this as Nightwing as opposed to Corporal Grayson is not in an effort to thumb my nose or knee-jerk contrarian at Amy, it’s not (only) due to my current lack of options, and it’s not to intimidate Machen — it’s also out of knowing that Desmond could show at any moment, and equally that my confrontation with Blockbuster is only a short time off, either way. It’s convenient that it comprises the majority of my remaining wardrobe at the moment — small favors. 

Every nerve hums with bitter determination. I’m ready this time — no more holding back, no more strategic patience, and no more being stuck within the restrictive confines of my police uniform. I’ve pulled out all the stops, my utility belt equipped to the point of nearly falling from my waist under the added weight of all the extra toys and gadgets. 

Playtime’s over, performing the part of the hero has come and gone — I’m going to leave that heartless, soulless, psychotic mass murderer begging for mercy before I’m done with him. 

“So you _are_ Anarky,” I greet Lonnie, not unfriendly, as he shuffles unhappily to stand a little ways off from me. 

He nods, unspeaking. 

“No secret how I found you,” I say, again, amiably, lifting a shoulder, my arms still crossed. “But it _is_ a bit of a mystery as to how you found me — tell me, how’d you figure it out?” 

He stands in silence, his shoulders hunched, clearly unnerved. His eyes dart back and forth. 

“Uh… someone told me,” he says after a moment. 

Bingo. “Care to disclose that information? Tell me who that might have been?” 

He shakes his head. “Sorry, man, I can’t.” 

I incline my head, and lower my arms. “Why’s that?” 

“I just can’t,” he replies. 

“Were you threatened?” 

Silence. He takes a step back. I take a breath, and force patience, altering my angle of attack. I can’t overplay my hand. 

“Lonnie, look,” I say. “I need you to understand what this knowledge implicates on a larger scale. I know I don’t need to spell out the kinds of enemies I’ve made over the years to you — but I’m going to, anyway. I haven’t just run afoul of two-bit street thugs who wouldn’t know their thumbs from their dicks — I’m talking people like Vandal Savage. Lex Luthor. The Joker. Deathstroke. Bane. _Black Adam_ has a bone to pick with me — maybe even two. Do you know what it would mean if any of _them_ definitively got their hands on my civilian identity? Not to mention — what lengths do you think they’d go to in order to _get_ that info from you?” I spread my hands. “People have _died_ with only one enemy knowing who I am — _well_ past a hundred. And all of them were victims of proximity — _none_ of them asked to be there. My neighbors, the Mendozas — Alejandro Mendoza wasn’t even _ten years old._ And you know Amygdala — the same guy you wrote an article about, who was released from Arkham and is a hell of a hitter in intramural baseball and a guard at Lockhaven now? _He_ was in my apartment building, the one that just got blown sky-high —” I gesture wildly, “and _think_ for a second about all the loved ones those people left behind! That number would hit into the _thousands!_ That’s how many people _one enemy_ having my identity affects!” 

He’s visibly upset now, shaking, his eyes going glassy under the dim, wobbly streetlamp. Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbles. 

“Look, dude, I never intended to give your ID out to anyone else,” he insists, pulling one hand from his hoodie pocket and gesturing. “I wouldn’t do that.” 

“Well, I appreciate that,” I say, “but look, I _need_ to know who it was that gave you my identity. You’re in danger just _having_ it, Lonnie. And while I might be able to trust your intentions — I obviously can’t trust who it was that tipped you off. So I have to take the next step, here.” 

“I can’t say anything else,” Lonnie mumbles unhappily. “I’ve said too much as it is.” 

“Why?” 

He shakes his head. “I just _can’t.”_

I gentle further, responding to the kid’s obvious fear. “Why did you email Amy Rohrbach, Lonnie?” I ask. 

“I, uh… got paid to.” 

“So… I’m understanding that you were approached by this other party, who gave you my identity and some cash to do as he said with it — along with some other not-so-nice profferings, like death and dismemberment and the like. Am I somewhere in the ballpark with that?” 

Lonnie nods miserably. “…Yeah.” 

“Was it Blockbuster who threatened you?” I ask. “Roland Desmond? He was the one, wasn’t he?” 

His eyes are like two glazed, terrified headlights in his face. He shakes his head. “I said I can’t tell you, man.” 

Yeah. It’s undeniably Desmond — it’s plain to read on Machen’s frightened face. 

Gazing at this kid, not even twenty, clearly freaked to the point of peeing his ripped jeans, taken advantage of by an eight-foot, murdering monster, my heart at once goes out to him, and I soften still more. 

“Listen, Lonnie,” I say gently, “I can _help_ you. I can _protect_ you — I can. But I have to know who’s behind this, first — I need to know where to look. Please.” Your arms spread plaintively. “I _need_ you to tell me. I promise I’ll keep you sa —” 

The word disperses into the air when there’s the sound of a muddled _thwock,_ and Lonnie’s face opens up in a burst of red that blasts all over my face and chest. A hiss squeals past my ear in a deafening shriek — a bullet barely missing my own face, skipping into the night in a mist of gore. Lonnie’s body crumples as his knees give and his form folds atop the pavement in a spreading pool of blood and scattered brains and bone fragments. 

Everything goes silent and slow-motion, the earth plunged into a thrumming, pulsing not-time, my limbs gone feeble and unfeeling in a wash of pins and needles. A shock of impact rolls through my body in sluggish, heavy waves when I hit my knees, all of the breath expelled from my lungs, my eyes blind but for the horrible, gruesome sight of Lonnie Machen’s dead body in front of me. I only now register that I’m hissing _no_ over and over again into the close, loaded air. 

Blockbuster jerks me back to the passage of time when he steps out of the darkness of the alley. I’d had _no clue_ that he was anywhere nearby, not even a _hint._ I’d checked the roofs, I’d checked the tracks, I’d checked everywhere — how — 

The gun smokes in his hand, the gray billows wisping like ghastly spirits from the mouth of the weapon. 

“You had to ask, Dick?” he states. “As ever, you are a colossal disappointment.” 

My heart flies in my chest as I find my feet and rise, my shoulders hunching and arms flexing. My knees bend. I plant my feet, my chest swelling as I haul in a ragged breath. 

“ _Why?”_ I shriek, waterfalling tears, past the point of sense or reason, gesturing furiously at where Lonnie lies pitiably on the concrete, his lifeless form evocative of all the other undeserving, innocent bodies before him. “Why him? Blockbuster, why the _circus?_ Why the _apartment — for Christ’s sake, there were children there — at both places —”_

“It’s simple, Dick,” Blockbuster says. “You didn’t save my mother, did you? Convenient that you were there, and you failed to save her… wasn’t it? Given our history.” 

I can scarcely _believe_ what I’m hearing through the discordant ringing in my ears. I lift my hands, gesticulating. “Roland, _I tried —”_

“You didn’t try hard enough,” Desmond snaps. “You didn’t _want_ to try hard enough. It’s your fault she’s dead — and you and I are both well aware of this uncomfortable truth, even if _one_ of us doesn’t want to admit it. But here’s the rub, little Dickie Grayson, Officer of the Law, First Hero to Blüdhaven, _Nightwing_ — you can take any knockdown you’re given, can’t you? You’re _trained_ to take a good pounding — hell, I think you might even _like_ it. I can smash you into kindling a thousand times over — and what good will _that_ do? You’re like a beaten, unwanted dog — you’ll just keep coming back, and you’ll remain undeterred, even if I break every last bone in your body, stab every last inch of your flesh, drain every last drop of your blood. So how else am I to _hurt_ you, Dick? How else am I to ensure you feel what _I_ feel?” 

I rip the Kali sticks from their holsters, crushing the charge to bring them into full power. The tips glow a blinding, cosmic blue. I move into an abierta stance, every limb shaking with ponderous, incomprehensible _rage._

If there was one thing that the historical Jesus hated — that he was well documented as openly deploring — it was hypocrisy. And this, _this_ is some of the basest hypocrisy I have _ever witnessed —_ even Jesus himself would overturn tables and start some shit if confronted with Roland Desmond in this moment. Senselessly slaughtering hundreds of innocent people _because his mommy died,_ using these bystanders as tools to _hurt_ me, and all because I couldn’t bring an elderly, dying woman back from the brink after she succumbed to her own goddamn heart disease when even the paramedics and _paddles_ didn’t revive her — 

An image of my own mother — reaching for me, her terrified eyes locked on mine as the wires snapped and her hands came up short, her mouth moving as she cried my name when her descent began — passes before my line of sight in a surge of heart-shattering fury. 

Normally, I might have related, might have understood, might have felt sympathy and sorrow for this unexpected kindred spirit — but not now. Not this time. My heart bursts like a grenade in my chest, the blast releasing all of the hindered enmity and vengeance locked inside. 

“You think you’re the only one of us who lost their mom, Desmond —” I bellow, my throat tearing under the raw, incendiary heat of my voice, “ _my mother was fucking murdered right in front of me, you goddamn bastard!”_

With that, I’m out of the gate, rushing him with every whit of strength in my body and not a care for my own safety. I slam into him, heedless of the dichotomy in strength and size, uncaring about whether he’ll lift me up and tear me in half (and he could, if put to the task.) He doesn’t, instead meeting my onslaught in a cross block, absorbing the shocks from the charged Kali sticks with rippling jerks that shiver through his powerful muscles. I draw back, and go at him again, and again, and again — finally hurling a fistful of explosives at him before tucking into a back walkover to avoid their blasts. They barely knock him off balance when they detonate, and he _leers_ at me as he advances on me through the smoke. 

I lift the sticks, and meet him head-on, for some ludicrous reason haunted by the books that Jason and I shared when we were in school as we clash — Thlayli standing up to General Woundwort, Fingolfin to Morgoth. Outsized, overpowered, outgunned — I don’t give a damn. _I will stand my ground._ If this is to be my last stand, I’ll go down with such a fight that Blockbuster will live with the pain of the wounds I inflict on him for the rest of his life. 

And he’s not the first colossus I’ll have toppled — I’ve fought hand-to-hand with Vandal Savage, Bane, Sportsmaster, Clayface, countless other roided out douchebags more intimidating than the desiccated pile of shit I fight now, and I lived to tell the tale each time. Desmond will be drinking his food through a fucking straw for the rest of his life before I’m done with him — again, even if I have to _die_ to accomplish this morbid goal. 

I’m not thinking, planning, considering — I’m _fighting,_ and I’m doing it with everything I’ve got, every ounce of my physical and my spirit. I redline my body, twisting into every feat of strength and speed in my arsenal, inventing new ones off the cuff, dancing around Blockbuster’s slower, clumsier form. The brawl moves to the tracks, the trainyard, the interior of the building when a hurled birdarang blows him through a first-level window. I leap through the created opening, landing atop his chest with all of my weight thrown into the jump, satisfied to feel the _thunk_ of dislocating ribs. My paltry one-seventy-five carries plenty of clout with enough momentum behind it. 

He swipes my ankle and chucks me like a toy into the concrete stairs, then regains his feet and sprints toward me with all his ungainly weight behind him. I spring into motion, leading him all the way to the top of the stairwell some flights up, bursting through the door onto the roof. He barrels through the frame to join me just as the thunder explodes overhead and the sky opens up, dropping a deluge down on us with a violence a hurricane would envy, as though the fight’s been taken all the way into the clouds. 

The bout continues, bruises opening, skin breaking, blood flying. He is an augmented giant, a horrid juggernaut of muscle and power, his body the bastard child of the Energizer Bunny and the Hulk — but I _match_ those augmentations in pure endurance and discipline, all of it drilled into me through years of working with Batman and training with Black Canary and Wildcat, and I’ll go toe-to-toe with this beast until _one_ of our hearts gives out (and he’s got a bad ticker already — like mommy, like son.) It’s my job as the fleet-footed, agile high-flyer to prance around my opponents, dodging them and springing out of reach until they tire, rendering them vulnerable in their fatigue as my own stamina goes on. 

As the rain comes down, I leap into a butterfly kick, slamming my heel into Blockbuster’s jaw on the descent, but — and I guess I was overdue for something like this — I lose my footing on the slippery, slimy roof, slick with silt and rainwater. Yes, it happens to the best of us — even Link slips on rainy rocks in _Breath of the Wild._ I swiftly right myself, but not before Desmond grabs my arm, yanks me to him, and rips the mask from my face. A knee goes to my ribs, breaking two in a duo of wet pops. As I stumble, he launches me through the open doorway into the stairwell. 

Rather than find my footing straight-off, I opt to keep falling, allowing Blockbuster to believe he’s gained the upper hand for now. I get my bearings enough to ride the fall down the stairwell in a series of tumbles and cartwheels, the stitching knots of pain in my ribs awe-inspiring and one knee wrenching in a flash of stupefying agony. Still, I break up the descent until I finally slam deliberately to my side on the landing. I jump to my feet, lifting the Kali sticks, again mashing the charge until they blaze and light the dim stairwell. I stand, vibrating, waiting, cut and bleeding, one knee blown, not caring. When Desmond descends the steps, expecting to find me writhing and groaning on the landing, he’ll have another thing coming. I concentrate my exhausted, heaving breathing, my heart hammering with effort in my chest. 

Blockbuster languidly turns the corner, each step echoing ominously off the walls around us. His breath is coming quick and harsh, his own face bloody and bruised. Good. My hands tighten on the sticks, and I thrust them forward in a brief, goading motion. 

“Look at you,” Desmond growls, his face contorting into a leer. “I hit you, and hit you, and hit you — and here you are, raring for more. That's the secret, the essential truth of your nature… I said it before, I’ll say it again.” One thudding step, another. “You could take every beating I dish out. You might even _enjoy_ them. You _do_ enjoy them, don’t you? You have absolutely no regard for your personal safety. But the people around you — well, that's a different matter.” His unsettling not-smile widens. “Isn't it?” Another step, bringing him closer. “I swear…” Closer, “on my mother’s grave…” Closer, “I'll take out the people you care about, every last one of them — hell, even strangers you stand next to on the street. You won't be able to shake someone's _hand_ without marking them for death.” And still closer. My breath quickens, spraying blood all over my upper lip. “Do you like being alone, Dick? I'll make _sure_ you can't save any of them… Loved one by loved one, innocent by innocent... It'll never stop. I'm never going to stop. I can keep this up forever.” 

I springload my quads — screw my busted knee, it just needs to last long enough to see this job done — and fist the sticks so that my gloves strain. 

“So can I,” I hiss, “so _bring it,_ asshole.” 

Just as we launch at one another, my pounce bringing me halfway up the long stairwell with Roland a few steps above me, he abruptly halts in his descent, clearly looking past me now, his attention immediately arrested by something else. I decelerate, and chance a look over my shoulder to see what it is that’s brought Desmond up short. 

I freeze. 

_What…_

_Catalina_ stands on the landing below, an assault rifle pressed to her shoulder. She’s unmasked, but dressed in the Tarantula suit. I stare in shock and confusion, unable to fully integrate the sight of her, even as I wonder in complete nonplus why she’s here so suddenly, so unexpectedly, so unannounced. For the briefest second Desmond goes _poof_ from my awareness as I process what I see, this shocking, out-of-place image of my former protégé and lover as she assumes a gunman’s stance with the rifle poised to fire. My hair strings into my uncovered eyes, my chest leaps and falls with my rasping, feverish breathing as I stare in utter bewilderment, then turn my gaze to Desmond, seeking answers there, instead. 

“‘Will you walk into my parlour,’ said the Spider to the Fly, ‘'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;...’” Catalina recites into the echoing stairway, angling the rifle. “‘The way into my parlour is up a winding stair; And I've a many curious things to show when you are there.’” 

“A slightly precipitate appearance made by the Spider, indeed,” Blockbuster says with a grin, and my heart goes through the floor, my brain dashing over all the possible meanings of these words and her abrupt arrival. “Tell me, Tarantula — what is your intended play, here?” 

Catalina is silent a moment as she aims the rifle — the mouth of the barrel staring me right in the face. Before I can open my mouth to ask what in God’s name is happening here, she speaks. 

“Get down, _mi querido,”_ she orders. 

Gazing at her, a seeking light of comprehension spreads across my consciousness like a hot, hateful sunrise, unfurling its fingers across my awareness. 

She’s here to _help_ me. In her way, consistent with her brutal modus operandi, she’s here for _me._ Even after everything that’s happened, after my last cruel, acid words to her, here she is, coming to my aid — _showing up_ in a moment of need. 

Her weapon is trained on Desmond. 

And I am in the way. 

The same understanding twists Blockbuster’s features into an expression of stark betrayal. 

“Ah. I see what this is,” he whispers, his eyes hardening and his fists clenching. “Oh, I see what this is. What lengths you’ll go to, Tarantula… what lengths, indeed.” He shakes his head. “Hell truly hath no fury.” 

I have no idea what he means, what he’s talking about, and it really doesn’t matter — all I can comprehend, all I can grasp, is all of the people who have died at his hand up until now, mass murdered in cold, unfeeling blood by the demon on the steps above me. 

I think of all the victims at the circus. All those in the apartment building. Miguel and Alejandro. Barbara. Lonnie. 

_I’m never going to stop —_

“Dick,” Catalina repeats, “ _mi amor._ Get down. Now.” 

_It’ll never stop —_

“He never will, Catalina,” Desmond murmurs, bloodless and smug. “For all you believe you know him… He will _never_ allow you to kill me. Never. He himself will take the shot for me, ending his own life in his eternal, boundless sense of sanctimony before he would see me killed by your hand — or that of any other. Take the shot. See if I’m wrong.” 

She adjusts the weapon, aiming straight at the broad, easy target of Desmond’s vulnerable forehead, my own the only thing between him and a fast, certain death. 

“ _Cariño,”_ she whispers, “ _andale. Muévelo.”_

Blockbuster is laughing, the sound reverberating eerily off the walls of the stairwell. 

_I’m never going to stop._

And in a cold, brief breath of emotionless logic, I know that he won’t. There will never be an end to this. He will never let it go. Even if I lock him up and throw away the key, he’ll torment me from his cell, sell my identity to anyone who wants it, ensure that every day I spend on this earth is a day I mark everyone around me for death, a day spent in a living hell. And next time, my loved ones, my family, my friends, the cashier at the checkout line — none of them will come out of the blaze alive. 

Again, I see all those bodies littered across the fiery ground under the burning big top. The rubble of the apartment building. The grieving Mendozas. Aaron weeping into his enormous hands. Barbara unconscious in the hospital bed. Lonnie facedown in a puddle of gore. 

_It’ll never stop._

I hold Catalina’s gaze, her eyes reflecting an endless night back at me, a dark angel come to exact a morbid justice, justice that _she_ can mete out. Her finger rests on the trigger, one motion away from spelling an _end._

_I’m never going to stop —_

Slowly, my body gone icy and insensate, I turn, and sink to my knees, the concrete sweating and damp through my own wet clothing, the air humid and brimming around us. 

I close my eyes. 

Then, the bark of the shot deafens my hearing and rattles through my marrow, wracking me to my broken core. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hermano: Brother  
> Mi amigo: My friend  
> Tipo: Dude  
> Que chingados: What the fuck  
> Claro, chicos, un momento — ¿tienen hambre?: Of course, guys, one sec—you hungry?  
> Tu eres tan amable, Dickie. ¿Qué haríamos sin ti? You're so kind, Dickie. What would we do without you?  
> Los perdimos… se fueron…: We lost them... they're gone  
> Dios mio, lo siento: God, I'm sorry  
> Mi querido: My darling  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Carino, andale. Muevelo: Honey, come on. Move it.


	23. Endgame (4)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, y'all...
> 
> And again, possibly bye, y'all.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE
> 
> This is essentially Nightwing Vol. 2 #93 without a lot of change, and worse, from Catalina's VERY distorted perception. It was insanely hard to write/get through--like to say this put me in a bad mood and made me feel disgusting/like I needed to soak in screaming hot holy water would understate the hell out of it. If you'd rather not read it, you can find a synopsis of #93 on DC's Wiki page and spare yourself.
> 
> Many apologies, lots of love and hugs, and not-happy reading...
> 
> Spanish to English at the end. <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> ~EF
> 
> (PS: I'm so sorry.) :'(

**CHAPTER 23**

Oh, _cariño._ You poor thing. You poor, poor thing. 

The second Roland’s body toppled onto its back, you shifted out of the way before it slid down the stairwell, slowly turning to watch its descent, your expression somewhere between distraught and disbelieving — really, loaded with too many emotions to perceive even one with any definition. Then, you blindly stumbled up the steps, heading now in an ungainly path for the roof, your shoulders hunched and your gait limping. I let you go, setting the rifle aside and taking a second to study Blockbuster, my former boss and comrade — and your archenemy. 

Hearing the swing and slam of the door to the roof, it’s now I move. I walk up the stairwell, mindful of the gore that’s made a Pollock painting of the steps. Most of it is Desmond’s, but some of it is yours. _Ay, pobrecito._ You will need someone to take care of you after this, from all angles, from all sides. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. 

You are not tailored to the life of a killer, _querido._ It is counterintuitive to your nature, taking a life, permitting one to be taken. You are a hero, a champion, _un caballero blanco —_ you save lives, safeguard them, value and treasure them. You are one of the rare few that acknowledges the sanctity in all living things, which reflects in how you shop to how you spend your time on and off both jobs. I know what this one, single decision, made in a moment of utter desolation and sensing no way out, will do to you before the dust settles and you can see things a little more clearly. It will kill you, slowly but surely. From within and out, it will kill you. You will need a hand to guide you, to heal you, to protect you from your own self. _My_ hand. 

I close the stairwell door behind me, mentally crafting a to-do list of sorts — there _is_ a body down below that I can’t ignore, not to mention a murder weapon, so at some point, I will need to contact the Angel of Death. But first things first. 

You need me. 

I approach you where you kneel, your hand clutched to your ribs at your side, the other bracing your weight in front of you. Your shoulders shake, your entire body quivers in the pouring rain. Blood pools in thin tendrils beneath you, oozing from your manifold wounds. Even kneeling, you favor your left leg. Your back ebbs and swells with your heaving breath, the air rasping in your lungs as you respire in jagged barks, each pule wracked with bitter despair. After hours of resilience and resolve, at last you are at the end of your rope. 

“Baby,” I murmur sympathetically, kneeling down beside you. 

You shake your head, and clutch your side harder. I just kneel with you, waiting for you to speak, knowing you will when you’re ready, prepared to hold and love you when the moment comes. 

“I did this,” you whisper finally, your voice black and dark. “I’m responsible for this. I’m responsible for _all_ of it.” 

I lean toward you a little, awaiting a cue to reach for you. “What do you mean, you did this, _mi querido?”_

“I failed you, Catalina,” you murmur raggedly, huddling around the grip you keep on your side. “This is my fault — I did this — I failed you — I’m so sorry…” You draw in a wet, wheezing breath, and look up into the rain, your eyes those of a wounded, hopeless animal. _“I_ put you in this — this place, it’s _my_ doing… I should’ve been a better mentor to you — I just should have _been_ there, should’ve tried harder…” You sag, your extended arm buckling, nearly pitching you to your front. “But I didn’t, and now…” 

_And now Blockbuster is dead._

The unspoken words pulse between us in a palpable thrum — and you lower as you mourn the death of even the worst of your enemies. Oh, _cariño,_ you are so broken, so bereaved, so overwhelmed with compunction and grief — I can _see_ you as you fold beneath the tide, swallowed up in its current, never to be spat out. This _will_ kill you without a hand to heal you — it’s killing you even now, right before my eyes. 

“Shhh,” I admonish you softly. “Shhh, baby. It’s all right. It’s all right…” 

I extend a hand to you. You pull away, stooping to your front, shifting to your back, lying prone. You shake your head, your face dappled and tracked with the rain that comes down in sheets from overhead. Your right leg is angled, clearly painful. 

You are hurt, you will need to be cared for — but you first need to be pulled from the riptide that grips you like a jealous claw, or you will only be dragged farther down to be consumed whole, _querido._ I must _reach_ you — a safety line to draw you from this whirlpool that holds your head underwater, exhausting and drowning you. You need me to love you, hold you, heal you. You may not realize it from within the swirling blackwater of your self-condemnation, confusion, and anguish, but you _are_ still mine — and I protect what is mine. 

You need to come home. 

And _mi amado,_ I will _bring_ you home. 

I know what it is you need, how to help you breach the surface and _breathe._ You will heal neither physically nor emotionally if you continue on this descending slide, lapsing into the yawning grave of your own onus and dolor. 

I move to you, clasp your face, thumb the tears and blood that streak your cheek. I lay another hand on your chest, draw it down your abdomen, tracing the shape of your middle. You lift slightly, and take in a breath. 

You protest. I shush you, cutting you off mid-word. Your head falls back with a thump. I quiet you as you protest again, take your hands as you raise them, lower them. I know it might not seem like it now, but you _need_ this, _cariño._ Oh, you need this. Let me care for you. Let me _help_ you. Let me draw you away from the abyss, bring you _home._

_“Permíteme ayudarte,”_ I whisper into your ear, my thighs bracketing your hips, _“déjame llevarte a casa…_ Shhh, baby…” 

Your chest quavers. You look away, your voice hitching in resistance as I kiss your cheek. _Mi querido,_ you’re not aware of your surroundings, lost in the discord of your own toxic emotions — but I promise you, your tears won’t fall forever. 

I bare your skin, rise, allow the rain to fall on your cuts and bruises, trace your abdominals, soothing your beaten flesh. Your chest lifts and cants slowly, infrequently; your eyes gaze unseeing at the skyline across the water. Your arms rest limp at your sides. 

Oh, _mi amor,_ where have you gone, what is this place you’ve found yourself in? How are you to return to me if you are this far away, so distant, so lost in yourself? 

_“Regresa a mi,”_ I whisper to you. _“Regresa a mi lado, mi amor.”_

This must not continue, _precioso,_ or you may very well be lost forever, breaking at last beneath the years of strain under this final blow. I remove all barriers between us, reveling in the feeling of the rain on my skin, the sight of it on yours, the warmth that rises from the touch of flesh. I press my lips to your temple, whisper into your ear, grind gently, work you with the palm of my hand, your heft soft and pliant. Oh, _mi querido,_ stop fighting it, you _need_ this, baby, you need it — 

Your body goes flaccid, your voice quieting, your arms lowering to your sides. You remain still, unmoving, and then the breath leaves your body in a long, deep exhalation as you lift into my palm. 

_Buen chico._ Good boy. 

I lean down, rest my forehead against your cheekbone momentarily, then rise to take you into my body — fusing, melding, joining. 

You are mine, aren’t you, _mi amor —_ oh, you are. You are. 

Return to me now, I’ll bring you home, I’ll care for you always. I will protect you from whatever is to come. I will be all that you need, fulfill you, complete you. _Lo prometo, mi querido._ I promise. 

It’s over before long, finishing quietly, sweetly; your eyes closing as the soft shiver trickles through you. I stroke your hair away from your face, kiss your cheek, your forehead — and it’s now that this stasis that’s overtaken you finally _breaks._

The tears come fast, mixing with the rain that speckles your face, even if you don’t quite sob. Oh, good, baby — _buen chico._ Let it go. _Release_ it. _Dejarlo._ Don’t take it in and let it consume you — allow a _catharsis_ now, and not a collapse. I pass a hand over your jawline, tracing its angle, murmuring to you. 

Lights overhead — helicopters, fitted with scopes, the Blüdhaven offshoot of the Highway Patrol — alert me to the fact that we are not in the best position to bask in the post-coital afterglow, for me to hold you as you release your pent emotions and purge the poisons of the last hellish hours. Desmond still lies in the stairwell, Machen’s body rests on the platform below, your DNA is all over this place, the rifle stands like a sentinel next to Blockbuster’s corpse — all of it forensic evidence that would be more than sufficient to land you, and me, behind bars. Sentiment can come later, I suppose, for as much as I wish to hold you now, comfort you, ease your suffering — what’s important _in this moment_ is ensuring our freedom to even do so. I whisper to you, promising to return, drawing the discarded material of your uniform up over your torso, and move to dress, contacting the Angel of Death even as I do. 

He agrees to meet me by Lonnie’s body on the platform, his ETA less than two minutes. The man must have access to Boom Tube or Zeta technology, I think, as I repel down the side of the station building to get into position. 

Oh, I hate leaving you like this, _cariño,_ but I must. There is work to be done — hard work, messy work, uncomfortable work. But all this discomfiting labor, these unsettling tasks — I do them for you, Dick, and I do them gladly. Because unlike the others, I am _willing_ to go to the dark places, the _ugly_ places, to watch over and safeguard you, to ensure your happiness and vitality. I love you, I cherish you, I treasure you. You are mine, _eres mío, para siempre._

And I protect what is mine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie  
> Ay, pobrecito: Oh, poor baby  
> Querido: Darling, dear (romantic)  
> Un caballero blanco: A white knight  
> Mi amado: My lover  
> Permiteme ayudarte: Let me help you  
> Dejame llevarte a casa: Let me bring you home  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Regresa a mi: Come back to me  
> Precioso: Precious  
> Buen chico: Good boy  
> Dejarlo: Let it go  
> Eres mio, para siempre: You’re mine, forever


	24. Cursed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, there!
> 
> Two updates in as many days... I swear there is method in my madness!
> 
> Honestly... I just couldn't leave the last chapter on the note it left on. I feel like Dick's voice deserved to be heard, that I owed everyone his point of view. I felt compelled to share this alongside from the get-go, actually, and have decided to. So... here it is.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: RAPE
> 
> Much like the previous chapter, we'll have to go through Nightwing #93 again... :'( (I'm so sorry.) 
> 
> Much love and hugs, all. <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo,  
> EF <3

**CHAPTER 24**

The hum-and-whir of the ceiling fan lures me up out of the half-sleep and riotous semi-dreams, wresting me from the chaotic inferno of my resting subconscious. I’m soaked in sweat, an icy, clammy sheaf of perspiration that dribbles over the surface of my skin and tacks the clothes to my body. My chest heaves in a panicked ebb and swell, my limbs shudder with tremors that well and ripple from my core. I sink into the pillows under me and release a breath. Looking over at the window, I see the wan, runny light of early morning, slate gray and fatigued. 

How many days have I been here, I wonder, in this strange, reclusive, punitory exile? I’m captive inside what used to be my home, a place I once felt anchored and safe, but now imprisons me like an insane asylum. The days might number fewer than a week, or more than a year — I’ve lost all concept of time, all comprehension of its passage. How does the world even continue to turn, I’ve wondered more than once, after everything has so profoundly _changed?_

All I’ve done since crawling in utter shame and desolation to this place is push my body through huffing, sweating acrobatic workouts well past the permission of my injuries, soak in water as hot as I can bear, submerged for as long as my lungs will permit — sometimes longer, until instinct draws me to the surface — and withdraw into this burrow of warmth and shelter, its comfort buffering the razor edges of my thoughts as they slice their painful parade through my mind, allowing me to sift through and fathom them without being cut to pieces. 

I haven’t set foot outside a single time. I haven’t opened myself to any lines of communication. I haven’t even opened my mouth to speak. 

It isn’t like me to do this, retreat, fade, diminish into inertia — _hide._ On a normal day in the life of Dick Grayson, the worse I feel, the more I channel the angst into _motion —_ working through the manifold hot, teeming landscapes of adverse feeling within the rigor of interaction and activity. But now, working my compressed body into muscle-ups on the rings, swinging and arching through the air, struggling to outfly my screaming thoughts, working myself into an exhausted, sweat-soaked daze only delays what lies in wait — the ponderous hand of an unseen goliath, its weight constricting my every movement, stalling each, rendering so much as a whit of momentum a dearly bought rarity. Even _breathing_ is difficult, passing through compressed lungs and burgeoned passages. Only my heart remains steady, the sound of its never-ending drum keeping time between my ears, the cadence and sensation agitations that wrack my frayed nerves. 

Even more rarely do I seek solitude in dark periods, usually finding solace in company and purpose in interaction. At the very least, companionship is a healing distraction from any tumult within. 

But not so, now. Not this time. 

If I thought I couldn’t show my face to my friends and loved ones after the last incident that involved Catalina, I almost have to _laugh_ at how completely that shame just pales in comparison to what I feel now. And I do laugh sometimes, giggling wildly over how stupid and innocent and wide-eyed I was, the mirth rocketing madly into hysteria, always peaking in body-wracking sobs that leave me weak and drenched in the cocoon of my sheets. I half-sleep after these catharses, my not-slumber troubled with lurid, gruesome dreams. 

There are moments as I run through the events at the Red Line Station that I wonder if I wouldn’t willingly stand before a firing squad. Enthusiastically skip up the steps to the gallows. Have a ready seat in Old Sparky. Submit quietly to the final drip. Either way, I’d walk that last mile without an iota of dread — merely of _acceptance._ Making my way to my just desserts. 

It doesn’t matter how I slice it, how I attempt to justify it. The facts — hard, uncaring, coldly logical — don't care about how inexpressibly sorry I am, how powerfully I regret it. They remain that I knowingly knelt. I deliberately moved out of the way of that rifle. I allowed Catalina to take the shot that killed Roland Desmond. It was a shot she was primed to take, one I could have prevented — I had every opportunity, every chance, every _reason_ to stop her. No matter what my enemies do, I am the First Hero to Blüdhaven. I work from a position of _compassion —_ not vengeance, or the sense that I know better. It was my duty to halt that trajectory in its tracks. 

But I didn’t. 

I gave into my shadow side, the cornered, bestial half of my animus. I fed my evil wolf, granted it victory. I faltered. I gave up. I folded. I crumpled. I was weak. _I failed._

It’s my job as both officer of the law and vigilante of the night to tie perpetrators to crimes and _catch_ the criminals — not sentence them, and _never_ execute them. And even if I didn’t fire the gun, I might as well have. 

I stepped aside and let Catalina Flores shoot Roland Desmond dead. In some ways, the irony is _glorious._ Corporal Richard Grayson, hero cop, volunteer do-gooder, habitual nice guy — now a willing accessory to a gruesome murder. How the mighty have fallen. The Joker would have a field day with this one. 

I moved to the top of the stairwell after Desmond fell, struggling to conceive some sort of path to follow, running through all manner of scenarios in my galloping mind. All of them came to one delta, one estuary — the end of the night would not see me a free man, and this same man was not the person he was even moments before. All in the matter of a single, barking second, his genes shifted and changed, leaving an entirely different being in his place. 

Atomized beneath the incomprehensible _weight_ of it, all of the compunction and grief, I went to my hands and knees on the roof, defeated, trounced, overcome. 

And then… 

I exhale, sick, fraught. 

I’ve turned it over in my head every bit as many times as I have the moment I knelt and let the gun fire. I ponder it as though it’s something of a Rubik’s cube, fighting to comprehend and solve it, render it linear and conceivable. But the fact is this is no Rubik’s cube, no child’s puzzle. There is no solving this one, just as there is no solving what happened to Roland Desmond — and there will _never_ be any solving this one. 

My genes shifted after my first failed, terrible choice. Then this… this _finished_ the job. This fundamentally altered the very state of my atoms, my nuclei, my DNA. The person I was, he is _gone_ — obliterated, lost in a fire, his chemical composition forever changed. 

I’ve downplayed it, mitigated it, rationalized it, minimized it — but no amount of normalizing what happened makes it apprehensible. Each snapshot memory of the event plays itself in a muddled time lapse — a strobing, nonsensical string of bits and pieces — but all of it binds together in one screaming, overlapping sense of sickening _wrongness,_ of _violation,_ of _theft._

I was so caught within the screaming, inward funnel that I barely noticed Catalina kneeling beside me, except to express my regret in one moment of murky semi-clarity that I had, in a way, placed her in the position to cross that terrible line. The truth was… I never should have walked away from her in the way that I did. I _knew_ her. I knew, on some low, ignored level, what she was capable of — and on this same level, I knew what abandonment would do to her. To be deserted was her worst fear, the most powerful crop that could be put to the beast inside, and I’d _seen_ the monster within her. Its power inspired a significant deference. But Catalina was a woman I befriended — _she was a friend._ In spite of all that she had done, I _loved_ her, I _cared_ about her, that comrade in arms and companion in life. And a part of me _still_ cared, still kept faith, still believed in the best outcome — in the _good_ within her. I didn't have to _be with her_ to help her, to be there for her. 

Witnessing her with that rifle, seeing the coldness in her eyes as she aimed the barrel at Roland’s face, hearing the utter lack of emotion in her voice as she told me to get down — I knew that I failed her. I failed her as her teacher. I failed her as her teammate. I failed her as her friend. This whole thing, even if Catalina also carried guilt, was ultimately my fault. If you trace the events, they all lead back to one origin — the moment that I left her. That was what opened the yawning grave to Catalina. She needed my help, and I withdrew my helping hand in a moment of anger — anger that failed to see or consider the bigger picture, that forgot my long cleaved to ideal that no one is too far gone. 

I tried to communicate this to her, tried to form a path to follow, but my voice felt pinched, lost, arrested in my chest. I _couldn’t_ speak. Everything within me seemed to collapse on itself in that moment, finally leaving me prone beneath the rain, pulverized. 

By some involuntary reflex, I retreated into my mind, closing myself away from my surroundings, lost in a bizarre, dissociative state of not-being, entirely disconnected from the world around me. I don’t think I’d have responded to a Tyrannosaurus bearing down on me with its mouth wide open, its teeth and gullet primed to make me a hot lunch. I was nowhere near the surface of my awareness. I was deep, deep below, somewhere unreachable, closed off within the depths of my conscious mind. I’d heard of dissociative states, but I had never gone into one — the feeling struck me with an odd pang of fleeting fascination, a sort of _Huh, so this is what that feels like_ moment. Probably it shouldn’t have been such an _ah-ha!_ or lightbulb experience, but it was. 

I remember Catalina speaking to me, feeling her hands on me. I remember resisting her touch, protesting — _Don’t touch me —_ just _needing_ a moment to reintegrate. 

That moment never came. 

One second, she was merely talking, laying her hands on me in what seemed an effort to comfort me. But in the next, between bursts of abstract, emotion-ridden thought, the material of my uniform was laid open — exposing my chest and arms to the rain. I couldn’t fully cohere to what was happening, every line of communication between my brain and body cut, every tether to any cognizance of my surroundings similarly severed. My line of sight played itself out like a far-away screen, the images removed and unreal, none of them physical or tangible. 

When she climbed atop me, bestriding me with her knees bracketing my waist, the screen moved a little closer, the sense of urgency at last tapping an audible report at my mind’s door. The rapping grew a hair louder, more insistent, when I realized I was naked, that her hand was on me, that _she_ was unclothed. 

I moved to ward her off, sluggish and weak, my mind still nowhere near the here-and-now, caught in an astronaut’s tumble leagues off in outer space somewhere. My limbs moved as though puppeted by faulty robotics, stunted and juddering. She ignored my motions, grinding against me, whispering in my ear, words I never made out or pieced together. The sound of my own voice, pleading with her — _Do_ _n’t, no —_ seemed issued by someone else. 

And then something in me _broke_ when the erection she sought came in spite of my mind being wholly elsewhere, in spite of my body rioting against her touch. 

I just went dead weight beneath her, all of the fight gone out of me in a long, heavy exhalation as she took me into her, _took_ something intangible, something that drained my very essence as though from a gaping, bleeding wound, something I would never get back. 

_This is the least you deserve,_ a voice whispered to me from somewhere within the recesses of my mind, _you deserve this happening to you, you deserve everything that will follow, you deserve so much worse —_

And again, I retreated — _deeper_ this time. 

The only cohesive thought that swam the shallows was a prayer that it would be over soon. 

The end was like a distant hum of thunder on a clear day — sensed, not felt, something of a surprise. Catalina stroked my hair, kissed my face, none of it registering in a corporeal capacity. But when she shifted, the motion freeing me of her — the tears that welled between my lashes finally burst like straining clouds, their tracks mixing warm with the cold of the rain that soaked my skin. And I let them come, not responding to Catalina, still held in that strange, detached stasis. 

My surface prayer morphed into the plea that she would leave — that she would just _please_ leave. All of my molecules seemed to split from one another, buzzing in a tenuous separation, kept from flying apart only by the colossal weight of the unseen shadow that braced itself over me. 

Her fingers traced my jawline, and then, at last — she was gone. 

I didn’t know why she left, and I didn’t care. I just lay sprawled under the rain, gazing up into the sky, free-falling and darkening, my spirit guttering down into a cold, drifting ash somewhere inside me. My limbs were four disconnected weights, my trunk an anvil, my mind a hard, condensed ball in the back corners of my brain. 

I lay for I don’t know how long before one hand, seeming of its own accord, shifted to find the trigger on the sleeve of my uniform, drawn up in a crude, makeshift cover over my middle. 

I pressed it. The distress call. Once. One time for Batman. 

I faded immediately following, receding into a gray, smokey state of unconsciousness, dreamless and unfeeling, lost and disintegrated. 

_Dick — Dick, wake up —_

Bruce’s voice drew me away from the merciful embrace of that numb slumber, cruelly pulling me back to the rainy, bedlamite present. My mind and consciousness slammed back into my body like a wrecking ball, and from that moment, there was no more dissociation, no more detachment. The pain in my body was real, powerful and consequential — but it had not a damn thing on the sickening horror and permeating _shame_ that bloomed like putrid, toxic blossoms in my heart. 

“Dick, what happened here?” Bruce murmured, his mouth set in a thin, hard line. His hand on my shoulder was unusually gentle. 

I didn’t speak. Couldn’t. All I saw, all I wanted was the sanctuary, the _safety_ his presence provided. I reached for him like a nightmaring child, heedless of my wounds and nudity. 

“Okay,” he whispered, on some dim, processing level surprising me when he immediately embraced me, holding me close to the haven of his powerful chest. “Okay. Let’s just take you home.” 

He helped me up, my form wrapped in his cowl and my discarded uniform. He grasped me easily in one arm as he leapt from the roof with the grappling line. Then we took off — speeding away from that awful place in the Batmobile. I still remember nicknaming the first version of that vehicle, a thought that grounded me, reminded me to keep _breathing,_ although it didn’t keep the vomit down — Bruce had to pull over several times so I could repeatedly chuck my guts up. 

When we got at last to the manor, Bruce allowed me to withdraw into my room here, only checking in every so often, apparently testing the waters. It was through Alfred I learned that Bruce secured a leave of absence for me from Amy, and that Barbara was well on the mend in RABE and would be returning to her father’s house soon. I didn’t know what happened to Catalina immediately after what occurred at the Red Line Station, what became of Blockbuster, what befell Lonnie — and I still don’t know. I haven’t looked at my phone to check into it, which Bruce picked up off the roof, and rests on the nightstand by the bed. 

I probably won’t. I’m not really sure I need to know more than I already do. 

Thoughts of Barbara twist and turn in my heart and guts, serrated and poisoned with guilt and self-loathing. I haven’t been in to see her, and I won’t be. She shouldn’t _want_ me in to see her — spoliated and unclean as I am. 

I’ve tried to reason with what happened, to wrap my head around it — again, just to minimize it into something normal enough for me to _process._

_Catalina thought she was helping me,_ I tell myself endlessly, _she was trying to pull the focus away from my own thoughts, get me out of my head, get me to focus on the then-and-there, on her —_

But the fact remains, there _is_ no processing it. No normalizing it. 

Because it didn’t feel like she was helping me. It _doesn’t_ feel like she was helping me. It felt, _feels,_ like she was _taking_ something. Claiming something. Exploiting that clusterfuck of a situation to _get_ something. 

And here I am — unclean. Unfit. Unworthy. Shameful. Guilty. Smirched. Emasculated. Weakened. 

I allowed Catalina to murder Blockbuster. And then I allowed her to — to — 

The sweats start again. I clench my teeth. I close my eyes. 

I don’t want to call it what I know it to be in my heart and gut. I don’t want to put a name on it. I _can’t_ put a name on it. 

But deep down, somewhere in my instinctive viscera, I know what it is — _I know what it is._ I know what she did to me. I’ve seen it so many times over the course of my career at the BPD, even more counting those I encountered behind the mask. Precious little has ever broken my heart more utterly, ever troubled my sleep and waking hours more completely than this particular evil. 

I never once thought I'd find myself a part of its neverending cavalcade of horror and pain. I _still_ can't fathom it. Still can't grasp it. Still can't _accept_ it — 

_Why didn’t you fight her off?_ whispers a voice from the recesses of my mind, the same that tormented me the night on the roof. _You’re a big, strong man — surely you could protect yourself from a woman half your size, why didn’t you just throw her away from you? You could have, you’re perfectly capable…_

_Did a part of you_ want _it? You finished — you came — maybe you_ did — 

I turn to my side beneath the comforter, covering my face with my forearms, inwardly _screaming_ at the voice to _stop._

_But you should have fought —_

Again, I scream at it to _stop._

But how can I even _consider_ sitting in the same room as Barbara again — how can I ever _hold_ her with these dirtied hands after I _let_ this happen to me, _let_ a human being’s life be wrested from him, _failed_ to save another — and more beyond? Always that awful night will haunt me, even if its events are ones I take to my grave, never brought to light — the blood spot on my hand, always visible, always sensed. _Out, out, damned spot._

I sit up and clench my teeth, fisting my hands, my muscles shaking. My molecules seem to buzz and skitter beneath my skin, skin I want to tear away from the meat beneath, ripping it all from my bones like filthy, stinking clothing. 

I slam my fists into the mattress. 

I can’t do this. I can’t continue in this way. 

The fact is, there is only one ending for me now. What Catalina did to me, incogitable as it was, doesn’t affect what I allowed to happen to Blockbuster — what _needs_ to happen from here. 

And after her actions on the rooftop, it’s hard to believe there will ever be a life for me, anyway — I can’t believe, sitting here now, dazed and still in a state of suspended belief and denial, that there will ever be healing, that there will ever be a resolution. What she did — it _killed_ something inside me, something I will _never_ be able to resurrect. And while I want so badly to ask her _why,_ to _tell_ her how unimaginably she’s hurt and demolished me — just from an impersonal stance I can’t allow her to keep running free after all the people she’s put a gun to. She’s filled an entire cemetery plot at this point, and I don’t care what her intentions or motives were. “Cool motive, still murder,” as the quote goes. 

And I have my own part in Blockbuster’s death. 

I swing my legs out of bed, my clothes wet and sticky. I take a breath, and get up. 

I know what I need to do, what needs to be done. And even if everything inside me is breaking down, even if every motion feels pulled through a quagmire of quicksand, I’ll see it through. I’ll finish this, tie it off, no matter how it hurts or even _kills_ me to do so. I take a breath, and even as my dislocated ribs stitch up, my knee flares, and the burns tighten, I get to. 

I ditch the damp shirt and boxers, step one. I pull on an old set of running clothes — ancient ones, from high school, step two. It’s a wonder they still fit. Next, I sit at the desk, unearth a sheet of paper and a pen, and write for the better part of an hour, so many thoughts and words coming slowly and painfully out of me in a stunted, aching parade of regret and resolve, step three. I don’t have time to double-check that my affairs are in order, but given the life I’ve lived, no double-checking required — that same task is done every month. I can rest assured everything’s in line. Barbara and my godkids will be well cared for. 

I dig through the closet and turn up a pair of trainers every bit as old as the clothes I wear, and pull them on. They’re snug now, but worn, and they’ll do. 

For the first time in however long it’s been, I look in the mirror. 

I grit my teeth, and exhale. It’s been longer that I might have thought, going by the growth of facial hair. 

A grim, sobering feeling comes over me as I study my reflection. The muscle mass and definition in my arms, shoulders, and torso — emphasized under the too-small tee, the broken, cornered look in my at once unnaturally blue eyes, and this new tough guy grizzling will prove _assets_ where I’m going — protecting me, giving pause to those who would look at me with nefarious intent. 

Hell. It might not even hurt to let Jason pound me into ground kindling later. 

I fold the letter with slow-moving hands, sigh heavily, and head out of my room, looking for Alfred. It’s just before six in the morning — if I had to guess, he’s in the kitchens or the Bat Cave. 

Trying the kitchens first, I’m surprised to see Bruce instead, standing at the island, thumbing the tablet he uses for work at WE. He’s dressed to the nines in one of his tailored work suits, working his way through coffee and avocado toast. He looks up as I enter. 

“Well,” he says, straightening, locking the iPad and turning to face me. “Glad to see you’re up and about — how do you feel, think you can tackle something to eat?” 

I shrug, wondering when the last time I effectively used my voice was. Alfred and Bruce have both repeatedly probed me over the previous days, weeks, whatever — but I haven’t acknowledged either beyond just shaking my head or nodding in response to whatever it was they had to say. They’d been forced to enter my room or the gym and approach me each time — I never got up or moved to answer their knocking. I had scarcely noticed my hunger or registered the pain of my injuries, even if I was aware of both, even through the workouts. All I could feel was the neverending _weight_ that rested on me, an invisible truck that held me crushed beneath it, trapping me under its inertia. Bruce and Alfred both seemed to sense this, and more so, understand it — neither of them pressed me to talk or get up or anything else. The only repeated urge from either was to eat and stay off my knee. 

“No, thanks,” I tell him, hovering as I think. “Uh… Bruce?” 

He eyes me, the natural, deep-seated compassion in his eyes oh, _infinitely_ worse than condemnation would have been. 

“Can you… make sure Barbara gets this sometime today?” I hand him the folded letter. “…I’d appreciate it if you didn’t read it.” 

“You know, you can deliver it yourself later — she’s planning on coming by this evening after she’s released from RABE,” he says. 

I frown askance at him. 

“I told her you had a fall and you’ve been here recovering since,” he explains. “I also told her you’re all right — just grounded for a week or two — and not to worry.” 

I exhale through my nose, and focus on the ceramic flooring. 

I won’t be here when she arrives. 

“Dick… Are you sure you don’t want to talk to her about whatever’s in this letter in person?” Bruce asks. 

I turn my eyes to him and don’t reply, just make it clear from my expression it’s not a topic I want to discuss. 

He nods, apparently understanding. “All right. I’ll see she gets it.” 

“Thanks, Bruce,” I say, then pause. “Look… I’ll be back in a bit, but can you do me one more favor and let Alfred know I’d like to talk to him when I get back?” 

Again, he nods. “Where are you going?” 

“Just — out for a run,” I say. 

“Dick, it’s storming out. And for approximately the hundred and tenth time, your knee’s not healed yet — the gymnast’s workouts are bad enough, you _run_ on it, you’ll risk a lot more damage to your ACL. Likely more besides.” 

His tone is concerned — caring, even, carrying that rare intonation of fatherhood. My chest crumples under it, threatening to disassemble me piece by piece. I subtly inhale, vying to collect myself. 

“Well, nevertheless… I’m going.” I shrug a bit. “It doesn’t matter at this point, anyway, Bruce.” I’m unable to keep the sad, regretful note from entering my voice. 

He frowns at me in his knowing way, his expression inscrutable. I know this look, these schooled features. He’s reading me. 

“What do you mean, it doesn’t matter?” he queries. 

I lift a shoulder, and try to half-smile. I fail, and just hope he noticed the effort. “Nothing. Umm… you going to be here when I get back?” 

He continues to eye me, his frown deepening. “I hadn’t planned on it. I need to leave for all day meetings in fifteen.” 

I stand, vacillating. 

The concept of touch, even from a paternal, nurturing family member, has been uncharacteristically anathema to me since the night on the roof, something I’ve mulled over with a sense of bitter irony. To think I’d have sacrificed a pet goldfish to an elder god or something just to have been _touched_ a little more a few months ago, to think I prayed for and fantasized about it nightly — and now, the mere idea of a handhold or hug makes my guts churn, my flesh crawl, my essence riot. The very thought brings nothing but curdling shame. I'm not even sure I'd allow my own mother and father to touch me now, were they still here. I was always touchy-feely with loved ones, never knew the concept of a personal bubble — this new sense of having powerful territorial parameters is unsettling, and it’s intimidating new territory I’m not sure I’ll ever comfortably traverse. It’s so at odds with the person I once was, such an overt reminder that the span of merely a few minutes’ time was sufficient to change me so completely and permanently. Just one more thing that Catalina’s taken from me. 

But at the same time, I know it’s now or never. 

I take a breath, and step toward my foster dad. 

Then, I wrap my arms around his waist, ignoring the twinging in my abdominals. This will very likely be the last opportunity I have to do this — hug the man who stepped up to the plate and became my dad after I lost mine. And while Bruce has never been what I’d call a loving, open, engaging, or affectionate father, he’s been a _devoted_ one, expressing his care and love in his own roundabout ways, always there, every bit as established and constant in my life as the law of gravity — in fact, more so. I _owe_ him a genuine expression of gratitude for everything he’s done for me, everything he’s sacrificed for me. I owe him an apology, knowing what this will do to him. And I owe him a fair goodbye. 

“Thank you for everything, Bruce,” I murmur, feeling his arms awkwardly go around me. I press my face into his shoulder. “Everything you do for me, have done for me — just… thank you.” 

The embrace breaks after a series of moments, just as I start to find an unanticipated, wholehearted _comfort_ in his sheltering arms, just as I start to feel I never want him to let me go. But he does, although he takes my arms for a brief moment before releasing them, standing before me now. 

“Dick… talk to me. What is this about?” he asks, his voice quiet, gentle, knowing. “Is it the night on the roof?” 

I'm silent, a shake going through me. I can't seem to meet Bruce's gaze. I finally nod. 

“Tell me what happened,” he says. “Let me help.” 

I shake my head, on the verge of tears. “We’ll talk about it later.” 

If there _is_ talking about it later, although I have a feeling that if there is, it’ll be on a phone through plate glass. My heart, already heavy, goes even more deadweight in my chest. 

“Do you want me to stay here today?” he asks. “You know I can reschedule my meetings — last I checked, I _am_ the boss.” 

_Yes._

_Please stay._

_Don’t go —_

“No,” I say, casting my eyes down and again, shaking my head. “…I’ll just catch you later, okay?” 

I head for the door that leads from the kitchen to the gardens. 

“Dick,” he says. 

I pause, my hand on the knob. 

“Do you have something you want to tell me?” he asks. “Because as I’ve said... you know you can.” 

I hold his gaze, and feel my shoulders as they sag perceptibly. Again, that knowing tone. The fact is, he's probably already pieced it together. 

“Well… if you’re asking me that, I’m guessing you already know exactly what I would tell you,” I say. There’s a wan, melancholic humor to my voice, and I let go a breath. “We’ll talk about it, Bruce — someday. Promise.” 

He just gazes back at me, unspeaking. 

I take a deep breath, and poised to make a getaway after what I’m about to say, I speak before I can stop myself, my words coming awkwardly, their delivery jerky and shaky. “…Listen. You’ve really been there for me over the years, and… been the father I lost, and… I just want you to know that it hasn’t gone unnoticed. None of it has. I’ve noticed it. And… I appreciate it. I really, _really_ appreciate it, Bruce.” And in spite of my efforts, the tears prickle at my eyes, poised at my lashlines, seconds from falling. “I’m just…” And here come the tears — “I’m so sorry about this. I’m sorry about _everything._ Just please know I never meant for any of this to happen.” Before he can speak, as he opens his mouth to, I say, “I love you, old man.” 

Then, I pop the door open, and fly the coop into the gardens beyond. 

It’s _pouring._ Pouring actually might be an understatement — it’s monsooning, deluging. I’m soaked to the bone the second my feet leave the bottom step. It’s barely light out, the sky overhead a threatening charcoal, the clouds rolling in black plumes across its surface. I look up into it, feeling it beat down on my face in cold sheets. 

Then, ignoring the pain in my knee and ribs, accustomed to the tugging sensation in my healing burns, I take off — hastily, lest Bruce should follow me. 

I’m not quite sprinting, but I’m close to it — redlining at my body’s threshold, past the framework of a tempo run, moving through the grassy yards surrounding the manor, entering the woods adjoining the property — a small, private preserve that Bruce owns. Nearby is one of the manifold hidden entrances to the Batcave. Farther off is the destination I plan on eventually making my way to — the rocky overhangs that stoop and ramble down to a pocket of a handful of the river’s estuaries, a place Jason and I used to go swimming on blazing days when we were on summer vacation. I brought Barbara there back when we were in high school — hello, first legitimate kiss we’d shared (this isn’t counting the incident of Spin the Bottle/Seven Seconds in the Closet on my fourteenth birthday.) The memory was once a fond one, warm and soft around the edges — now, it’s bloodletting and razor sharp. My heart, hammering in effort, pounds harder in a flash of regret and shame. 

I will miss her. 

I will miss all of my loved ones. 

Bruce, Alfred. My brothers. My godchildren, Artemis, Wally. Gannon. My teammates and friends. 

And… this. 

I will miss this — running unbridled through the woods, free to roam them physically, even if my spirit and heart are in chains. 

This is to be my last run. My last taste of freedom. I’ll run myself into foundering, sicken myself, punish myself — but I’ll savor these final hours. 

Because when I get back to the manor, after I’ve said my goodbyes and expressed my gratitude to Alfred, after I’ve sent my emails and notes to my loved ones — it’s onto the clink of cell doors, the cold metal of cuffs, the scratchy itch of orange jumpsuits, the act of growing eyes in every side of my head and preparing to throw down at every provocation, the revile of comestibles that are barely classified as “foodstuffs” in any legal sense. No more playing the hero, no more donning the badge, no more championing justice. I have gravely sinned, _mortally_ sinned — and it’s time to own up. Confess and accept my penance, be that whatever it will be — doubtless, a very hefty prison sentence. It’s all that I deserve, all that I’ve earned. I’ll enter into it willingly. 

I can’t speak as much for Catalina. But I have no intention of allowing her to just wander the world free any more than I do for myself — I’m not the only one bound for a prison cell in the future. 

I have a responsibility for her every bit as much as I do myself. And now, my last action will be to remove that standing threat from my city before I land my own self behind bars for the wrongs I’ve also committed against it. 

There’s a saying that a criminal leaves about twenty-five mistakes behind on a crime scene. Looking back, they’re lucky to remember one of them. Even if Cat feels she covered her bases, there will be at least one mistake out of her prescribed twenty-five that she will have forgotten in _one_ of her scenes. And Amy is like a wolf with a fresh kill — once she sinks her teeth into something, she doesn’t let go. My one regret in tattling on Catalina to the authorities like a weaselly street nark is what it will do to Mat, an undeserving innocent in this war, a regrettable human face of collateral damage. 

The fact is, I should have turned her in a long time ago. I ignored the signs. I ignored the flags. Wrong turn, Clyde. 

I have little difficulty recognizing the truth about Catalina Flores now, this woman I _thought_ was my friend, that I _believed_ still had light and good within her, that I protected and mentored and guided. I fought and wrangled with that truth for months — but there’s no more fighting it now. She’s a cold-blooded, ruthless, and remorseless murderer. And more besides. She didn’t care when she killed Roland. She didn’t bat an eyelash when she offed Blockbuster’s goon. And she was downright _gleeful_ when she murdered Redhorn. 

And that she could do what she did to me, as easily and thoughtlessly as walking up to a flower and tearing it up by its roots, and not even _see_ what it was she _did —_

I weave through the woods, not following the trails in any sort of sensible pattern, just going where my legs feel like taking me. Here and there, I dry heave, both from the intense effort under sustained sleep deprivation, and the nauseating onus that plagues my mind and heart like a smokey, polluting demon. I only run harder for it, plowing through the smothering scrums of anguish, my arms pumping and legs pistoning. I’m sprinting now, sobbing as I do, the tears streaking unchecked over my cheeks, mingling with the rain that makes its way through the canopy. 

I shift trajectories, and make a hard, hundred percent, balls-to-the-wall effort toward the cliffs, breaking through the line of trees like a stampeding antelope. I barrel up to the precipice that overlooks the raucous water below, slowing at the last moment into a jog, coming to a halt inches from its edge. I haul in breath after breath, each one ragged and deep, my chest barrel ballooning with exertion. Rainwater sprays from my lips. My hair strings into my eyes and across my face. 

I gaze down at the water below. Lapping. Tossing. Beckoning. Inviting. Deep. Cold. Purging. Cleansing. 

_Come in,_ it seems to whisper, _come in…_

It’s a dangerous leap in good weather, and the water will be intensely cold at this time of the year — this could very well spell my unintended suicide, but in this moment, my flesh screams with a _need_ that overpowers reason. 

Overhead, lightning flashes, followed some seconds later by a clap of thunder. Even more peril now, above and beneath. 

I strip down, tearing the clothes from my body, kicking the shoes away, leaving it all in a haphazard pile atop the patched grass at the cliff’s edge. I stand naked on the promontory, feeling the rain, letting it flow over me, the sheets trailing over my body like icy hands. I let the rain caress my nude body of my own accord now, inviting it this time, exerting my own agency over the sensory experience. I look up into the sky, and close my eyes, relaxing my arms at my sides. I remain like this a moment before I take a breath, open my eyes. 

Then, on the outbreath, I bound over the remaining ground — and _dive._

xxxxx 

I lie sprawled by the water’s edge on the rocky shoreline, resting, breathing. My drained muscles sink into the stones under me. The rain still falls, a little more lazily now, just tepid drip-drops from overhead. Spent, just like my body. I sigh, for the first time since the night on the roof, heavy with integrated fatigue — _relaxed._

It won’t last long, I know. Even if they’re at bay for now, the demons are still there, abiding, never to leave. As I lie here, they shift about not far off, standing by, pacing the shadows, waiting to spring. 

So I’ll rest here and _feel_ this for a little longer — just a little longer. Before I have to face them again. 

The water was a sweet, purging shock — embracing me, taking me into it with open arms, freezing the toxins within my system, shattering them into dust, rebooting my confused, whirling brain. Again and again I dove beneath the surface, dolphin kicking down into the black, humming quiet until the pressure plugged my ears and squeezed my skull. Then I’d burst back up, breaking the surface into the rainy, whipping air in breakers of water. I swam my body into replete exhaustion, my muscles into jelly, my lungs into an aching burn. Finally, I made my way to the shore, and sprawled here — utterly depleted, but for the moment, peaceable, still. 

By and by, when I’m ready to get up, I rise, the blood swimming in my skull, symptoms of stress and exhaustion. I inhale, exhale. I get to my feet, slowly, carefully. I stretch, reaching my arms over my head, bowing my back, arching until I complete a full backbend, grasping my ankles. I hold this pose a moment, allowing the stretch to permeate my battered, tired muscles, and then languidly ease out of position, gradually, bit by bit. Again, I inhale, exhale. 

Making my way up the rocky embankment, the unease remains, the pain is still there, but it’s overpowered by a quiescent resolve — for now. I step, just placing one foot in front of the other, walking up the rambling, grassy rocks to the overhang on which I left my clothes. Making my way toward my reckoning, my absolution. 

Time to put everything into motion — however it will hurt. Hurt me, hurt those around me. I'm sickened at thinking about what this will mean to my loved ones, what it will _do_ to them. But at least now, _this_ time, this hurt will be for the greater good, for the benefit and safeguarding of all — not a reaping of the flowers of evil that I have unwittingly sown throughout the whole of my life. 

I let go a deep, heavy sigh, laden with remorse and regret, into the air. The wind is mild, balmy; the warmth of spring subdued in the damp weather. It bites my chilled, naked skin, still cold from the long swim in the icy water. 

I crest the incline, and freeze, every motion arresting on the spot, every muscle going tense and loaded. My breath fences in my chest. My heart stops. My feet plant. 

I stare in abject horror, fury, and disbelief. 

She’s here. _She’s here._

Catalina. 

Standing in front of me. By my clothes. Waiting. 

“What,” I hiss furiously, covering myself, “the _hell_ are you doing here?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Sorry about the cliffhanger, ha ha.) :D


	25. The Yawning Grave (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, everyone... <3
> 
> Oh, here comes the rising action, ha ha. XD Enjoy!
> 
> Note: Catalina is not aware that Tim is Robin. <3 (Or that Jason is the Red Hood, or Bruce Batman, etc.)
> 
> Happy reading! Much love and xoxoxoxoxoxo!
> 
> Spanish to English at the end. :-) <3
> 
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 25**

How many times have I wandered around the manor grounds, out of sight of the security cameras, in an effort just to get a glimpse of you, _querido?_ Upon finding the empty space you’d left on the roof while I was distracted below with the Angel of Death, I threw myself full-tilt into finding you. You had all but vanished like a puff of smoke in a violent wind, leaving nothing but your blood behind. It’s taken some time, but I discovered through some seriously creative sleuthing that you have been at Wayne Manor. 

Why, though, _cariño?_ What on earth possessed you to rabbit off like that, and moreover, to the man you’ve referred to more than once as a refrigerator? What benefit did running to Foster Frigidaire possibly present to you? I have fought to wrap my head around it, and the only explanation that offers itself up is that _shame_ is what ultimately chased you here. 

It makes sense, I suppose. I have considered the merits in escaping past misdeeds within this vast estate — it is an easy place in which to lose yourself, reinvent yourself, _heal_ yourself. There’s a timelessness about this old, rising structure and these rambling grounds that removes Wayne Manor from the greater reality outside — creating an alternate existence within, safeguarded from the real world by its reaching gates. 

This doesn’t explain why you’ve completely ignored me, however — unless you are just that sickened with yourself, so ashamed that you can show your face to no one, including me, the one person who will accept and understand you no matter what the egregious circumstances might be. That you ran home to Daddy, to the manor in its timelessness and permittance of reinvention, supports that theory, I guess. But I’m through waiting on you, _hermoso —_ it’s been long enough now. I am going out of my skin. I cannot keep calling and texting, never receiving anything more than your voicemail greeting and a resonating silence in response. 

And it’s not as though I can just knock at the front door, as I came to uncomfortably learn some days ago. Your dorky younger brother answered my attempted call, glaring at me and speaking with about as much warmth as an Arctic blast. This cold reception morphed into some hot threats in short order — taking me completely by surprise. 

“I’ll put it this way, Miss Flores,” Tim said, “you come back here again, and we’ll consider a restraining order. Take that as a clearly stated warning — and kindly remove yourself before further action is taken against you. You know we’ll see it done.” 

I considered busting his head open — after all, he’s roughly my size, surely an easy drop — but if he was threatening restraining orders for God knows why (seriously, _qué demonios —_ I’m confused even now by this), I figured it best I bounce for the time being. When you come around, when you detoxify from the guilt and self-condemnation, you’ll have no need of that nerdy little shit, anyway. To think I ever compared him to Jaime. Ha! 

And truly, you need not feel shame with me, _querido._ You could have willingly pulled the trigger on Desmond, and I’d have loved you just the same, embraced you always as mine, cared not a whit for your sins. I just need to assure you as much, remind you that _I_ am the one who will love you and accept you always and no matter what, that you will always find sanctuary in me — and I’m sick of waiting to do so. You need to move on, to live your life, to come back to me and go all in on the joys of _living._ Holing up like the Unabomber in your foster father’s estate — it isn’t going to do you any good, _mi amor._

So… lo and behold, here I am on a miserably wet morning, in Gotham once more, reduced to stalking around the manor gates like a pathetic creeper and timing my movements to the security cameras so as not to alert the estate’s inhabitants to my presence here, _waiting_ for you. You cannot remain holed up forever, _cariño —_ I know you. You’ll come out eventually. I just need to keep at it. I’ve tried every range of hours now, haunting the grounds, minus this one — the gross, tired, sleepy pre-dawn hours. 

And suddenly, as if by magic — _there you are._

What a turn of luck — _at last._ Although I wonder what on earth has possessed you to pop outside and go for a run in a damn monsoon, I remember I’m in no position to cast judgment (after all, I’m here in this same weather _waiting_ for you like the fool for love I am, aren’t I?) I rise from my little haven beyond a stone pillar of the fence. I shift into a jog, falling into step a good ways off from you, not wishing to tip you off to my presence just yet. 

I just hope I look sexy when bedraggled under this deluge, rather than like some drowned, waterlogged rat or mildewing creature from the black lagoon. I run my fingers through my soaked, trailing hair, observing you as you leave the manor’s yards, breaking into a hard run once you’re out of the garden gates, making your way into the forest beyond. 

I tail you with ease — you’re still injured, clear from your uneven gait, the blown knee slowing you down. Already I outrank you in this area, but keeping up with you when hurt — it’s literal cake walk. _Sin ofender, mi amor._ I easily stride along behind you, following your erratic path through the woods surrounding the manor. I wonder what it is you’re up to, risking the weather like this, running on your injury so. 

You break through the trees at a sprint, now making me work a little more, and barrel to a stop at the cliff’s edge some ways from the forest line. You stand, heaving with effort, catching your breath. You glance up at the sky, then down at the reaching estuary of the river below the rocky overhang. 

I’m about to announce myself, ready to tease you over the fact that you’ve ignored me since the night on the roof and have left me no choice but to come find you like this, but I pause when you unexpectedly peel the wet clothes from your body, shedding them until you stand naked, as glorious and beautiful in your nudity as the dawn, under the whipping rains. I incline my head, now just watching you, curious about what you’re up to. 

You shock and _terrify_ me when you leap from the edge — arching into a swan dive over the precipice. 

_“Qué chingados!”_ I cry, and rush to the promontory, peering frantically at the water below, seeking some sign of you, any indication that you weren’t killed on impact, wondering in horror at what the _hell_ you’re doing, leaping from a cliff at least three hundred feet high and into freezing water laden with rocks. I don’t care who you are, _cariño —_ that type of dive can easily kill someone, even if they’re careful, even if they’re experienced — 

I draw up even shorter. Unless you _knew_ that — 

Oh, Christ, Dick — do you truly feel so badly, have you really fallen this far — 

Seeing only the black, lapping water below, my alarm swells, and immediately I ready myself to dive in after you. I have been to this place, _mi amor_ — it’s _not_ a good place, and it’s nowhere that anyone should _ever_ find themselves alone. It’s _not_ going to end this way — you need to know that you are not alone, that you are not lost forever, that there is still _light_ waiting for you — 

But then I catch sight of you as you break the surface of the water, your back to me, your neck canting as you take a breath. Then you dive back down, graceful as a wild dolphin, clearly at home and comfortable in the water. Your motions are deliberate, measured; you are underwater long enough that you clearly wish to be there, and sufficiently above the surface in such intervals that I know you’re not attempting to drown yourself. 

I huff. Have you gone off the deep end, _guapo?_ Literally _and_ figuratively? _Dios mío,_ I think you very well might have. Who on earth rises to run in a thunderstorm before six in the morning, strips to his birthday suit, and goes for a swim in freezing water under bolts of lightning? 

Of course, it once more begs the question of what the heck _I’m_ doing here, following you as you pursue these ludicrous endeavors, but I’ve accepted that I tend to lose my head a little where you’re concerned, _querido._ At least it’s beneficial in this case — if you’re going to act like a lunatic, you need a chaperone, and you’re just lucky that I happen to be who I am, that I’m _here._ I park it by your clothes, prepared to remonstrate at you, waiting for you in the sheeting rain. 

I rise when you, after what seems a wet eternity, finally make your way up the embankment, drenched and nude and limping. Your eyes trace the ground you walk, concentrating on the path ahead of you, etching your steady trail up the hillside. I place my hands on my hips, and incline my head. 

It’s now you look up, and freeze in your tracks. Your eyes go huge and bright in your whitening face, the skin blanching and draining of all color. Your muscles tighten and ripple. With a jerk, you cover yourself. Momentarily, I wonder at this — you’ve never been self-conscious or apologetic about your body. Even in a similar incident of surprise with someone such as let’s say Artemis or M’gann, you’d have probably just laughed and not even bothered, figuring the damage to be done, and dressed unembarrassed, as though nothing amiss had just transpired. And I’ve _seen_ your body innumerable times at this point. Why so bashful all of a sudden? 

“What the _hell_ are you doing here?” you snarl, your voice laden with acid vitriol, your jaw squared, your shoulders hunching. You gesture with one hand, still covering yourself with the other. “How did you _find_ me?” 

Well. Much like the abrupt trip to Self-Conscious Town, that’s not quite the response I expected. Shame, yes, apology, absolutely. But this _anger?_ I blink in the rain, taken aback, and shake my head. 

“Well, you’re not as hard to find as you think,” I say lightly, lifting my shoulders, “and honestly, _cariño,_ if you’re going to ignore my calls and texts, you really don’t give me much choice _but_ to come find you after you disappear on me the way you did.” I smirk. “At least you didn’t leave me waiting in the rain for too long _this_ time.” 

You’re silent, your jaw still set, your shoulders still hunched aggressively. You step agitatedly toward your discarded clothes, ignoring my effort at levity. I watch, a little bewildered, wondering at this behavior. Last time we were together, I made love to you, you came inside me — why are you acting like this, so _hostile?_

“Do you mind?” you snap, gesturing, holding your shirt across your middle. 

I snort. “Oh, come on, _guapo,_ it’s nothing I haven’t seen before.” 

Your eyes blaze, and like that, you wordlessly yank your clothes on, glaring hotly at me the entire while. You bend, pick up your shoes, and stalk off barefoot toward the tree line. 

“Where are you going, _cariño?”_ I ask, following you, now only a tick shy of frantic. I speed up as you do. “Come back — I want to talk to you —” 

“Well, I don’t want to talk to you,” you return, turning your furious gaze to me as you continue walking. “And as for where I’m going, _anywhere_ but here — anywhere but somewhere I have to be within _seventy miles_ of you. _That’s_ where.” 

I halt, and feel my heart as it kicks under the hurt of your unexpected words. “What are you talking about?” 

“You know damn well what I’m talking about,” you mutter, breaking into the woods. I hop back into step, trailing you. 

“I don’t, actually,” I inform you helpfully. 

You stop, and turn to me. “Okay. I’ll spell it out in simple chapter and verse, then. I’d rather get waterboarded or vacay in hell than even be in the same quadrant of the _universe_ as you — quit following me.” 

“Dick — why are you acting like this?” I ask, floundering, my heart sinking somewhere into the vicinity of my shoes. “Be reasonable —” 

You cackle bitterly, and look at me with piercing, glittering eyes, eyes that can hardly be classified as sane. “Reasonable? Have you even paused to consider how completely fit for a straitjacket this is? Showing up at like six am in a freaking thunderstorm in a private reserve that’s gated off on all sides _and_ monitored by security cameras? Following me to a cliff and _waiting_ for me and then acting like I’m supposed to _expect_ you or something? I mean, seriously, Catalina — what the _fuck_ are you even doing here?” 

My heart’s jittering in my chest, my throat growing, my eyes burning. What _is_ this, _querido?_ Where is this _anger_ coming from? I understand that you are disappointed in yourself over what you allowed to happen to Blockbuster (who deserved what he got and more, frankly), but you don’t need to take it out on _me,_ your friend, your partner — the one person who will understand you and have your back in this. 

“I told you,” I say, forcing calm. “I was worried about you — I wanted to see you, and you haven’t responded to my calls or texts. I mean, come on, _chulo,_ when you won’t answer me, what other choice do I have but to turn you up in person?” 

“How did you even know I was here?” you snarl in reply, far from calm, gesturing, your demeanor impatient. 

“Well, as I’ve belabored to you about a gajillion times, FBI does _not_ stand for Fabulous But Incompetent,” I say triumphantly. “You ought to know by now that I have my ways, _cariño.”_

Your eyes blaze — even more hotly this time. “Don’t call me that.” 

I incline my head, tired of this back-and-forth, now ready to match you, to rise to the occasion. “And why not, exactly?” 

“You know why.” And just like that, you’re back off down the path. “As I’ve belabored to _you_ about a gajillion times — I don’t want to see you, Cat.” 

“Dick —” I catch up to you, and take your arm. 

You wrest your arm from my grip, and when I try again, you take hard hold of my wrist. I’m astonished when you angle your shoulders to loom threateningly over me, your back canted, your arms flexing in your shirt. For a bare second, I lapse, alarmed. You’re _hurting_ me. 

“You do _not_ want to touch me right now — or _ever,”_ you growl, holding my wrist in such a grip I’m already feeling my hand balloon and fingers go numb. “You ever even _think_ of touching me again — I’ll forget your _hermano’s_ such a good pal of mine. _Comprende?”_

You release my wrist with a swipe. 

_El Jesucristo —_ who _are_ you? I have no idea _where_ this is coming from, and you don’t seem too keen on communicating it to me with any clarity. All you’ve done since I’ve come to you is get your dander up sky-high and start acting like a posturing meathead — _so_ unlike you. And while on one hand it’s a little unbecoming, considering that I am accustomed to your kindness and even temper, it’s unexpectedly _thrilling,_ somehow, too — you all riled up like this, in the throes of one of your fabled volcanic rages. 

I grit my teeth, determined now to play, somehow dangerously excited. You want a fight, _querido?_ You want to let off some steam? Are you itching for one, not caring who presents it to you, needing so badly to _ventilate_ the building pressure inside you before you blow your lid through the stratosphere? Obviously, you’re not thinking clearly or operating on an unhindered headspace — you don’t even _see_ that I am not your enemy, and truly, I doubt anyone who stepped in front of you would receive special treatment in this moment. You’re primed, aggressive, _seeking_ a tiff. It doesn’t matter with whom. I have a feeling you’d even drop that _bruja_ Barbara — hell, Batman, Artemis, Jason, Gannon — if any of them crossed your path. 

Well, fine, then, _chico._ I’ll indulge this little teenager’s tantrum. If it’s a fight you need, it’s a fight you’ll get. You can even finish it out by hate-fucking me until you _break_ and finally sob your direly needed catharsis in my arms. Yes, _cariño,_ I will do that for you, and like all other dark, ugly things, I will do it _gladly_ for you. 

I cross my arms, and start goading. “Are you _threatening_ me?” 

Your expression and posture don’t change. “No. I’m _warning_ you.” 

I half-smile, and lean toward you. “Warning me of what… _guapo?”_

You hold my gaze with your hot, searing eyes. 

Then, abruptly, you turn — and start walking off, your pace and steps brisk and purposeful. You don’t look over your shoulder as you speak, continuing to make your swift way down the path. “I’m only going to say this once, Catalina. You need to leave — _now_. And you need to _stay_ the hell away from me.” 

Aggravated, I follow you. “Dick —” 

“Catalina — stop. We were done _months_ ago — and we were _past_ done when you murdered Blockbuster and did what you did to me on that roof.” 

I pause, a hot lance shooting through my chest. “What do you _mean,_ what I did to you on the roof —” 

You speed up, walking swiftly over the path. One more acceleration will see you in a run. 

“Dick —” 

Finally, you pause, and turn for the briefest moment, just long enough to say, “Catalina, _fuck off —_ that’s my final warning. I _never_ want to see you again — understand?” 

I stand, arrested in my tracks, scarcely believing what I’m hearing. 

I watch as you traipse your self-important way down the trail. My teeth grit. My fists clench. 

Oh, don’t you dare. Don’t you _dare, cariño._

Oh, this _infuriates_ me now, Dick Grayson — your daring to _walk away from me,_ daring to bring up that _cabrón_ Blockbuster’s overdue demise to me when you had your own goddamn hand in it, daring to pretend you didn’t moan and come inside me on “that roof” — oh, _bad_ mistake, _muchacho._ Bad, bad mistake. Your little adolescent tantrum is not merely juvenile, a moment of puerile whimsy, but it’s entirely unjustified, too — you’re so addled with guilt and self-reproach that you are no longer even seeing _reality_ for what it is. 

I chase you down, and grab your arm, yanking you violently to turn you in my direction. 

“Don’t you walk away from me, you puffed up asshole,” I snarl, “you have a lot of nerve talking like that after you came inside me —” 

My words vanish in a burst when the trees overhead wheel into a blur and a blast of white light explodes across my field of vision. The breath goes out of me in a huff. There’s a darkened moment of disorientation, until my line of sight evens and my respiration returns. It takes me a second to piece together that I’m on the ground, lying atop a tangle of roots — Jesus Christ, you just _hurled_ me full-throttle right into the trunk of a tree. And your full-bodied throws? They’re _hard._ Damaging. And even now you stand, looming over me, predatory, your chest jumping and falling with your fevered breathing. Your arms arch outward from your sides, your eyes are the sparking blue of hottest fire. I shift to my back, my weight braced on my elbows, sinking into the soft earth at the base of the trunk. Numb spots, prickling and hot, scattered across my body foretell of bruises and cuts. 

“I told you if I ever had to touch you again you wouldn’t like it,” you growl, your voice low and dangerous. _“I meant it._ And if you want to test that theory further — trust me, you’re gonna like it _even less.”_

I leap to my feet, pausing a moment when I’m upright and standing in front of you. Your posture is unchanging except to angle over me, your shoulders broadening and tensing even more beneath your snug tee. Your fists tighten. Your chest leaps. Your pupils are blown, your nostrils flaring with your intense respiration. 

You _do_ want to fight — if I give you one reason, you’ll throw down, right here, right now. 

And I know that even as I gaze at you, for all my training and experience, you’ll _flatten_ me in a breath. Even worse, going on the look in your crazed eyes — how they blaze and spark, brighter than exploding stars — you _want_ to flatten me. You _want_ to hurt me. You’re _waiting_ to hurt me. All you need is an excuse, one final push. 

Why — _why,_ Dick — I don’t understand this at all — 

My heart falls. The tears well in an instant. Heartbreak mixes with fear. 

But as though prodded by these visceral responses to your looming stance and threats to hurt me and the fact that you already have, the anger rises to take its place at the fore. 

Well, I can’t stand up to you in a fight, I accept that — but I have other weapons in my arsenal, don’t I? I formulate a plan as the sorrow heats into rage, all of its pieces clicking into place as I stare you down, mirroring you. 

Then, I turn on my heel, and take off at a dead sprint down the path. 

You don’t follow me — just as I figured you wouldn’t. You can’t stand up to my intrinsic speed on your best days, and injured, you don’t have a chance at catching up to me. And you know this — so you don’t follow. You let me run. 

_Buen chico._ Good boy. 

I make my way out of the manor grounds, rushing toward where I’d left my car, parked out of the way on the shoulder near the preserve. Yanking the door open, pulling the keys up from beneath the seat, I start the vehicle up, and fly to Blüdhaven, my teeth clenched, my resolve cemented now. 

This will hurt, _cariño —_ this spells trials and tribulations for the both of us — but if I must go to this place, this _darkest_ place, to prove the depth of my love to you, to bring you the light of truth through the veil of darkness with which you’ve surrounded yourself, _así que sea._ So be it. You know what they say about desperate times — they call for desperate measures. And I will _take_ those desperate measures to ensure that you are loved and safe, that you are where you belong, _with me,_ in the end. You have failed me, failed our love for the final time — but I will give you one more chance. One more, _mi querido._

This is regrettable, though, _cariño,_ in many, many ways. This may very well spell the end of your existence as you know it. I _know_ this is, from countless angles, a betrayal. This will extend into all areas of your life, bring harm and damage to every last corner. But it’s for the best, _mi amor._ Like a fever, this must become worse before it can become better. Because once more, you need a push — and this time, you need a _powerful_ one. And after you’ve _been_ pushed, when you are prostrate and desperate for a solution, I will offer you a deal. One you cannot, and will not, refuse. 

It seems a counterproductive way to make you mine, to _keep_ you as mine. But you have left me no other recourse, and anyway — you’ll come around. You will merely need some time to clear your muddied, guilt-addled thinking. And when you’ve replevied your senses, you’ll admire me for taking this difficult road, appreciate my selflessness and sacrifice, realize that _I_ am the one who really, truly loves you. 

And Dick, if you _push_ me into making these hard choices, I will always make them. No one is going to make them for us, after all, _mi amor,_ no one — and you cannot be counted on to see reality as it is. So it has fallen to _me._

_You_ have brought this on yourself, _mi querido._ And while I feel some sorrow over what this will mean for you, I am not sorry. Because _you_ have done this. You have placed us here, forced me to make this terrible decision, once again failing to shuck the grasp of your old, poisonous life — stubborn, bullheaded, recalcitrant, _mulish_ as you are. 

Deluded and foolish as ever, you have opened the yawning grave — now see what lies within. 

I traverse the highways to Blüdhaven, filled with a hot, building determination, one that will not waver. My goals will be fulfilled — oh, they will. _Lo juro._

Arriving in the Blüd, I make my way to the police station, and park by the curb that lines its curving building. I step out of my car, daubed and raggedy, my hair stringing and damp, my body covered in myriad cuts and bruises from the impromptu flight you sent me on into the tree. My wrist is darkening where you grabbed me. _Perfecto._

The second I walk into the station, I turn on the tears — not hard to do in my present state, with all the cuts and splinters stinging, the bruises aching, my heart even more so. I’m immediately shunted off by the dispatcher at the front to sit with Fregley, who will be taking my initial statement — oh, even better. Chief Rohrbach will doubtless get involved, but if I have Fregley — who hates your guts and vice-versa — in my corner, this task will become oh, _infinitely_ easier. He’s all but _waited_ for an excuse to hamstring you… and now he has one, provided by none other than yours truly, the same woman he has never pieced together to be Tarantula, his masked cohort working with our now dead boss. Ha! 

“So what’s going on, Miss Flores?” he asks, once I’m seated with a cup of coffee and some lightly issued, murmured words by some of the other officers. It feels good to be petted like this after the events of this morning, after you so callously broke my heart and landed me here, making this tough choice, throwing this painful di. “I can tell by looking at you you’re not here for Mat today — what brings you in?” 

“I… want to lodge a complaint against an officer here at the BPD,” I say with a sad, heavy sigh, and then restart some tears. “Richard Grayson.” 

Then, I launch into my tale — the story that I honed and perfected over the course of the drive from Gotham, the one that tips a hat to our late friends Desmond and Redhorn, the one that will place you in checkmate. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ALSO... screw Cat for abusing the system, which is in place for a reason...**
> 
> Querido: Darling, dear (m, romantic)  
> Carino: Honey, sweetie (m)  
> Que demonios: What the hell  
> Mi amor: My love  
> Sin ofender, mi amor: No offense, my love  
> Que chingados: What the fuck  
> Guapo: Handsome  
> Dios mio: My god  
> Hermano: Brother  
> Comprende: Understand, get it  
> El Jesucristo: Jesus Christ  
> Chico: Boy, kid  
> Buen chico: Good boy  
> Asi que sea: So be it, be it so  
> Lo juro: I swear  
> Perfecto: Perfect


	26. The Beast of Bray Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, y'all!
> 
> Ugh. PAST exhausting, PAST long, PAST a lot of work and research... Boy, howdy, lol. All my thanks to my stepdad the retired cop and brother the practicing attorney for all of the amazing help in ensuring this chapter was approached with tolerable accuracy! <3
> 
> TRIGGER: Rape aftermath, suicidal threat/ideation, battery/talk of the system, etc.
> 
> Enjoy... WE ARE SO CLOSE TO THE END!
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxo!  
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 26**

I slam my fist into the punching bag, cursing when my mounting fatigue makes the hit land amiss. The impact painfully jars my wrist. I huff a loud, heaving sigh, and hunch over, placing my battered hands on my knees, fighting to catch my breath. Since this morning, I’ve pounded this punching bag into shrapnel, wearing its canvas surface thin — Captain America might even be impressed. I’m not gloved — I’m not even taped. My knuckles are bloody and raw. Sweat soaks my clothes. My hair tacks itself in wet threads to my perspiring face. 

As I breathe, the events of this morning fly across my line of sight — Catalina appearing like a demonic summons by my clothes, goading me, probing me, tailing me, _violating_ me even more. My ire rose right along with my fighting spirit to see her there, wiring every last muscle to go at once on the offensive. 

I stuffed the urge to lunge in my spontaneous towering rage at her, and determined instead to leave the scene. However, repeated efforts to distance myself from her failed — words had no effect at all, although I _tried_ to separate from her before the situation, already explosive, could escalate further. And when she grabbed my arm and made a comment about the rooftop, the switch, already tenuously in position at best, flipped and blew the fuse — and for the barest second, I went out of my skull. By pure instinct, on a knee-jerking reflex that came by no conscious will of my own, I hurled her full-tilt into a tree — my entire _body_ rioting against her touch and leaping at once to remove it. 

She lay disoriented on the ground a moment before getting to her feet, her posture going tensile and primed, thousands of emotions flitting across her face. For a moment, I thought she might respond by going for the throat — and my body was pretty much on autopilot, all defense systems engaged. It would throw down if she did, and from there I couldn’t guarantee I wouldn’t hurt her worse than I already had. I threatened her, raising my voice to a bark, making it clear that she was in imminent danger of seriously getting hurt the longer she stood in front of me. I couldn’t trust myself not to completely _equalize_ her if it came to blows in that moment. I barely restrained myself as it was — if I said I didn’t _want_ to hit her, all instincts aside, I’d be lying out of both sides of my teeth. 

Finally, she turned on her heel, and sprinted away — rabbiting top gear into the woods. I stood watching, letting her go. I couldn’t catch her on my best days, and with a blown knee, I had a snowball’s chance in hell of even keeping her in my sight. So I allowed her to run off. 

I inhaled, exhaled, vying for calm. She could run — she couldn’t hide. A matter of hours and I’d have the BPD on her front step. 

First things first, though — I needed to hit something. _Hard._

I ran into Bruce when I reentered the manor, surprised to learn that he wasn’t going to his all-day meetings, after all. Again, he pressed me to talk to him, and more urgently this time when he recognized how distressed I was, but I circumvented his efforts by refusing to speak and beating a rapid path for the gym. I didn’t seek Alfred as promised on my return. And now here I am, however much time later, with bruised, beaten hands — feeling no different, no better. If anything, I feel _worse._

I meander over to a workout bench, sit down heavily, and pop the cap off a bottle of water. I sip, and breathe, trying to balance the seething energies within. All of the strength in my body is depleted, but my mind is still tireless, thrashing. 

Movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention, and I look over. I start when I see Barbara — _What?_ — wheeling toward me, one arm navigating her chair, the other still bound in a sling. I get to my feet, and take a step backward — my movements, once more, purely reflexive. 

“Barbara,” I say, my voice reedy, “what are you doing here?” 

Wrong words. They just kind of come falling out of my mouth. And I sound disheartened even to my own ears, I think with a pang of regret, as I stand torn and wired. One part of me _wants_ her here, suddenly burgeoning with a clamoring desire to unload _everything_ to her, to ventilate the toxic, mushrooming storm outward, to seek her well-known, trusted comfort — but the other riots against her being here every bit as much as my body rioted against Catalina’s touch. 

I haven’t _wanted_ to see Barbara — the shame and sense of… _corruption,_ or defilement, growing overpoweringly acute at just the thought of her name. I haven’t felt worthy of so much as sharing oxygen with her, and standing in her presence now, I feel somehow _strange,_ entirely discomfited, not at all like myself. And I’m not ready to try to explain myself to her — nor am I ready to tell her goodbye. 

I force myself to attempt getting it together, and realize it’s been a _while_ since I last saw her — many of her bruises have faded, and she’s clearly a lot more sprightly and mobile, even if there’s a dark cast over her unsmiling face. I let go a sigh. 

“Sorry,” I mutter, running a hand through my sweaty hair. “Top on the list of wrong things to say. Let me try that again — how are you feeling, are you okay?” 

She rolls to a slow, deliberate halt, and eyes me with a mix of feelings in her blue eyes. She shakes her head, not making a motion to come closer. Gazing at me, she seems to sense the walls that go up between us — walls of my making. 

“Well,” she says quietly, sounding every bit as disheartened as I did, “I’m here because I got released from the hospital this morning… and Bruce gave me your letter. Alfred told me you were in here.” 

I exhale, and sit back down on the bench. 

Here it comes. 

I rest my elbows on my knees. I don’t say anything. There really aren’t words for this sort of thing. 

“Dick… why?” she asks, angling toward me, an uncharacteristic quality of _pleading_ entering her eyes and voice. 

I gaze over at her. I can see by her demeanor that she isn’t angry, she isn’t on the offensive, she isn’t leaping to argue — she’s confused, she’s disbelieving, and she’s _hurt._ It’s a spear right through me — I _never_ wanted this to happen, never wanted to hurt her. I’d done that enough already. And I’d vowed not to hurt her again, swearing that promise up and down and _meaning_ it with every fiber of my being, and had done everything in my power to see I didn’t. 

Once again… failure. 

I can’t even meet her gaze for a second without my guts twisting up with onus and self-loathing. I look away. 

Barbara gestures with one hand, palm-up. “Dick, I turned up through some picking around that Blockbuster’s disappeared — there’s been talk that he won’t be back, given the amount of trouble he was in back in Blüdhaven. There’s even been the below-the-radar suspicion that he’s _dead_. No one’s released that suspicion or even his disappearance to the greater public, but either would make sense — I mean, he’s made a _lot_ of enemies. The point is, there’s not… there’s not really any _danger_ for us anymore, if that’s the case.” Her eyes well. I’ve never seen her like this, so _plaintive._ It hits me like a nuclear blast, and my own eyes fill. 

“Dick…please,” she goes on. “Just tell me _why._ I don’t want to pull this card, but… don’t you think you owe me _something_ of an explanation before you just break it off and hole up all _hikikomori_ here?” She shakes her head. “I don’t understand it — I got why you felt we had to separate there for a while, but… this? Breaking it off entirely? And not even giving me the courtesy of doing it in person? It’s not… it’s not _like_ you.” Again, she shakes her head. “God, and _seeing_ you now, I barely recognize you — you don’t even _seem_ like yourself… _What_ is going on?” 

Seconds from breaking, I don’t look over at her. I hunch over my legs, folding in on myself, unwittingly making myself as small as possible. 

There’s a long, long pause before she speaks again. 

“Dick, what happened?” she asks, her entire demeanor now shifted, her voice gentle, probing. “Something _happened_ — I can see it all over you. You didn’t just fall. And Bruce is just about out of his _mind_ over you right now — I’ve never seen him like this, although as usual he won’t tell me anything. What’s going on?” 

Just like that, I’m crying — it feels, at times, like all I’ve done since Catalina entered my life is cry. Hurt. Break. Fail. 

“Oh, honey,” Barbara whispers, her posture slackening in her chair, and that — her whispering, the mix of warmth, love, and concern in her voice — it only opens the dam more. I cover my face, my elbows on my knees. 

“Dick — babe — talk to me,” Barbara says more insistently, wheeling a little closer now, a veterinarian testing the waters with a wounded animal. “What’s wrong? What happened?” 

“I can’t, Barbara,” I murmur into the heels of my hands. “Just… I promise you’ll understand, okay? But I can’t tell you now.” 

She shakes her head, and wheels a little closer, now within reach. “Dick… you need to tell me. Please — just _talk_ to me. Let me _help_ — whatever happened, it’s killing you. I can see it even now — you _need_ to let this one out.” She reaches over, and rests a hand on the bench by where I’m seated, leaning toward me, not touching me. Canny as always, she seems to recognize that I’m guarded and hair-triggered. “You know no matter what it is, you can tell me. Whatever it was that happened.” There’s a pause. “I’ll still be here after… no matter _what_ it is you tell me. Promise.” 

I lower my hands, and look over at her. 

The look on her face, the understanding, the _compassion_ in her beautiful features, the concern and worry in her eyes — that does it. 

I unspool completely. I just _totally_ unravel. 

And just like that, _everything_ pours out of me, all of it, every last thing — each terrible recount vomiting from my mouth in an unhindered, shaking, tearful stream. Everything from Lonnie, to the brawl with Desmond, to Catalina’s abrupt, unheralded arrival, to the shot I allowed her to take, and finally… to the roof. 

I can’t articulate the last to Barbara, choking on the words, at last cutting them off and just letting the sobs come as they will. They wrack my entire body, my shoulders shaking, my voice strangling in my throat. 

Barbara has listened in perfect quiet this entire time, not once speaking, not even nodding — she’s merely held me in her blue gaze, silently taking in each account, not moving or making a single sound. 

When the sobs really gain traction, it’s now she finally reaches over to me, and takes light, gentle hold of my hand. Her touch is questing, soft. I lace my fingers in hers, my grip tightening bit by bit, integrating the sensation of her hand, assimilating its safety, the security and love that her touch — that _she —_ represents. 

Barbara won’t hurt me. She won’t pervert her touch. She won’t overturn the trust I have in her. Even if knowledge of this and my unfearing faith in her will take time to truly _roost_ again, I know that she will never harm or betray me in _this_ moment — and that’s enough. 

I lean toward her, and I let her hold me — her arms drawing me to her shoulder. Her grasp is light — again careful, mindful. One hand runs over my damp hair. I feel her cheek as it rests on my crown, a shake in her shoulders. She’s crying — she’s crying with me. 

“Babe, I’m so sorry,” she whispers to me. “I’m just so sorry.” 

After a time, when our tears have tapered, and quiet has come back over the expansive room, she leans back and takes my face in her hands, studying me, brushing the hair away from my wet skin. A softness comes over her expression, a tenderness, an abiding affection and guardianship. She slowly leans toward me, and kisses my forehead. Her touch is feather-light. My muscles go stone heavy, past spent. 

Even if I don’t feel _better,_ even if I’m not convinced _better_ is something I’ll ever feel — there’s a sense of calm for now, this exhausted quiet a balm that momentarily softens the edges of the terrible, reaching pain within. 

“Well…” she murmurs as I sit back, and scrub at my face and sniff. “I understand now. Why you wrote me that letter, and…” She breaks off, and exhales. “That’s a talk we’ll have, but when it’s time — for now, we just need to discuss the immediates.” She gives me a fervent look, one that brooks no argument. “Dick, you can’t turn yourself in.” 

I heave a sigh, and wipe ineffectually at my eyes. “Barb, I have to.” 

“You _don’t_ have to,” she insists. “Babe, you are _not_ the one that pulled that trigger. You are not the one who just showed up apparently at random with a goddamn assault rifle. You are not responsible for Desmond’s death, _or_ the fact that his body disappeared. And you’re _sure_ as hell not responsible for what Catalina did to you.” She sits back, a look of raw, abject fury in her blue eyes, their flicker blistering, combustible. “Again. A talk we’ll have, but only when you’re _ready_ to have it. God, Dick…” She pauses, and her fists clench atop the arms of her chair. She inhales, breathes out, and shakes her head, relaxing her hands. Her eyes fill all over again. “Saying this calmly. If I _ever_ see that monster again, she’s going to wish she was never born. And after she wishes that, she’s going to wish her _parents_ were never born. Then her grandparents. And on down the line. I swear to God, I’ll —” Again, she breathes out. “Jesus, she _needs_ to be locked up — and not just in jail, but in the farthest reaches of the universe in one of Darkseid’s torture cells. I’d even say she’s fit for a straitjacket in a padded room at Arkham at this point, Dick! I mean — _who does that_ and thinks there’s even a shred of normalcy in it? She _killed_ a man in front of you and then _took advantage_ of you when you were in the middle of a goddamn breakdown over it! And I don’t want to hear you rationalizing or minimizing it — that’s _exactly what she did._ What’s making you hesitate to use the word for it?” The tears fall. She swipes at them, her chest widening with her breath. “And look — I know what you might be thinking, that you deserve to be punished for what happened, that you let her take the shot.” Her wet eyes blaze hotter still, and her voice raises in pitch and decibel. “But you listen to me. Even if you were to blame by the most generous stretch of an ample and willing imagination for what happened to Desmond — which you are _not_ — you’ve been punished enough. More than enough. _Too_ much. And… I’m not even convinced of how much guilt you actually need to carry for kneeling when Catalina pointed that rifle.” 

I shake my head, wiping my own tears, my guts turning. “It’s pretty cut and dry, Barbara. Catalina pointed the gun, I had the chance to intervene, and I didn’t — I willingly stepped out of the way, the end.” I stare unhappily at the floor. “I have to turn myself in.” 

“You don’t, actually — I have a theory,” Barbara says. Her voice carries the fierce intonation it gets when she’s _really_ onto something — and when she’s onto something like this, she’ll _never_ let it out of her sight until she sees it through to even the bitterest end, a cruise missile doggedly overcoming the elements to close on its target. It invokes a sense of curiosity in me, enough wonderment that I look up at her, ready to listen. “But I need to do some research, firm it up — it seems so _obvious_ that no research should even be necessary, but it’s also _so bad_ that I almost don’t even want to _speak_ it without forensic or definitive confirmation.” 

“What are you thinking?” I ask, frowning. 

Barbara is only getting fierier, her disposition more active. “I think that bitch planned this. I think Catalina planned it from the _very beginning.”_

I stare in silence for a long series of moments, the implications and ramifications of this too enormous to process with any sort of immediacy. 

“I think when you ended it with her… she put this whole thing in motion,” Barbara says, her features hard-set, her fist pressed to her chin in a familiar gesture. “I don’t know when it _definitively_ started for her — but I think she might have been planning _something,_ be that whatever it might’ve been, and then she shifted gears and _capitalized_ on Desmond’s grief — like she incited him into real action and then opted to sort of… hide behind Blockbuster’s movements when it came out in the media that he blamed you for his mother’s death, thereby avoiding any sort of suspicion or blame…” She lowers her fist and gestures passionately. “It explains how he got your identity. And… I mean, _think_ about this, Dick. Really think about it — she _had_ the motive. _And_ she had the connection to Blockbuster already — and if he was out for your blood, and she was out for the same because God forbid you dumped her — wouldn’t that have given them reason to work together? All she had to do was go to him as your spurned and vengeful lover — and he’d have believed she was on his side without a second thought. And — God, I even think she might’ve had a part in _what_ Blockbuster targeted, the circus, the apartment building — I was at both places, Dick, Artemis was at the first, neither of us is Catalina’s favorite person…” Her jaw sets and her nostrils flare. “And we _both_ know she’s not above murder. It could very well be she’s opened up to killing _innocent_ people now. I mean, you _can’t_ look me in the eye and tell me that psycho hose beast is stable with a straight face. And _all_ of this was to get you where she wanted you — vulnerable and open to attack. She stage managed you, as you put it once already, she _puppeted_ you — and when she got you at your _most_ vulnerable, she fucking _sprang!”_ She shakes her head. “Goddamn spider — how did I not see this before? How didn’t I even _consider_ it? I’m sure _Bruce_ probably did…” 

I just sit in silence, letting this new, _awful_ possibility sink in. 

No. It _couldn’t_ have been Catalina — she was quiet for so long, nothing to report, just lying low — 

Lying low. Oh, Jesus, lying low, plotting, orchestrating, _moving —_ could that have been the reason for her uncharacteristic quiet? 

Oh, Christ, of _course_ it could have. And how the hell did _I_ fail to see this or consider it hitherto? There’s been so much _noise_ in my brain, too much, maybe I _did_ see it, but failed to truly _hear_ it over the raging discord — 

No one has such impeccable timing as she did when she showed up in that stairwell, _no one —_

And if Bruce _does_ suspect her, which I’m now sure he probably does, likely he didn’t let me in on it right away because he’s for _once_ shrugged the mantle of the Bat to take on that of a compassionate, loving _parent —_ likely he’s been waiting for me to come to him when I’m good and ready to before he drops it on me like the fucking atom bomb it is — 

“Oh, Jesus,” I breathe, having little else in my repertoire, sagging and pressing my face into my hand. 

Barbara shakes her head. “Dick. I hope I’m wrong — but I _really_ don’t think I am.” 

“…I don’t think you are, either,” I say, my voice thick and heavy. I inhale, and fight to collect myself. _Get it together, Boy Idiot._ “Well — I guess regardless of whether or not you’re right, it doesn’t matter. She’s going down either way. Even if she — if she _isn’t_ guilty of the rest, I have to turn her in for Blockbuster, at least. And for Redhorn.” 

Barbara stares at me. “She killed Redhorn, too?” 

I realize I never told Barbara this — protecting Catalina. Protecting her wrongfully. Furious now, all despair shoved under the boiling water of rage and purpose for the time being, I nod. 

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s how I came to find she had a vigilante alter-ego of her own.” 

“Okay,” Barbara says fiercely. “Then we need to quit hanging around here. She is _past_ dangerous. You need to turn her in now — and if you even _think_ about implicating yourself, I’ll smack your ass to Pluto and back. Capisce?” 

I nod, and stand. “Capisce.” 

If this is true — then I’m racing the clock after the confrontation this morning. When Catalina is hurt or wronged, it’s eye for an eye with her. There’s no turning the other cheek. And when she lashes out, she means it. She does it to _hurt._ She goes right for the vitals and plays for keeps. Playing with Catalina is like playing with fire or a restless sea. 

I get moving, even if my knee is hurting like _hell_ right about now. 

Even as I’m turning to head toward one of the phones in the manor to call Amy, I catch the sound of voices in the hall outside the manor’s gym — Alfred’s raised voice, riddled with an uncharacteristic anger, then joined by Bruce’s, his also hot and elevated. Both mingle with other unidentified voices. I frown, and glance down at Barbara. 

I’m standing by her chair, poised and curious, when the door to the gym slides open, and none other than Officer Bob Fregley and his partner Greg Claycomb enter the room. 

“BPD Golden Boy Corporal Grayson,” Fregley says triumphantly. “Here you are.” 

“In the flesh,” I say, wondering at this, although a feeling of dread’s risen in my gut. “What’s this about, why are _you_ here?” 

“Well, just come on quietly, Grayson,” Fregley says, all but leering as he produces his cuffs. “BPD and GCPD officers alike are outside. You’re coming down to the station with us — you’re in a _lot_ of trouble.” 

He steps over to me, cuffs in hand. 

“What for?” I ask, taking a step back. Fregley reaches over and grabs hold of my sleeve. I swipe his hand off my arm, about to assume the position to drop him on his ass, but it occurs to me I _will_ be in trouble if I do, so I stall in my motions and stand down. 

“Richard Grayson,” Fregley says smugly, jerking me around and yanking one of my arms back, “you are under arrest for suspicion of the murders of Delmore Redhorn and Roland Desmond — and for assault and battery.” I feel the metal of the cuffs on one wrist. “It’s always the nice, quiet ones…” 

“What are the grounds for suspicion, here?” I ask, ready to do what doesn’t come naturally to me following this and shut up. 

“Well, you know Catalina Flores,” Fregley says conversationally, jerking me around and yanking one of my arms back. “The DA’s sister, your ex?” 

My heart and guts sink. I don’t respond, my teeth grinding as Fregley gives my cuffed wrists a rough tug. 

Christ. I’m too late. Here it comes — 

“She came into the station a little while ago alleging that you physically assaulted her,” Fregley continues, “and not only is that claim supported by physical examinations, but she’s also implicated you in the disappearance of Roland Desmond and the murder of Delmore Redhorn. Which _circumstances_ also happen to support.” 

Barbara leaps in. 

“What?” she snaps, her voice harsh and acid. “Do you even realize what it is you’re actually _doing,_ here?” 

“Ma’am, this doesn’t concern you,” Fregley tells her, rattling the cuffs around my wrists and pushing me toward the door. “I’d suggest you stay out of this before you make things worse for your little boy toy here.” He shoves me again, reciting my Miranda rights now, the well-known spiel echoing throughout the cavernous gym with the funereal report of a dirge. When he rounds out the last word, he jars the back of my head. 

“Fregley — I’m cooperating, cut out the Tru TV bad cop shit,” I snap, my heart banging wildly in my chest. My mind gallops feverishly, trying to find some solution to this mess. 

I don’t come up with much. The only thing I can really do for now is cooperate — I’m already being taken in, and the fact remains that I _did_ shove Catalina. Endless extenuating circumstances or not — I _did_ push her. Frankly, _I_ wouldn’t even give me the benefit of the doubt if I were on my own case, here. The system is in place, and is what it is, for a tragic reason. 

And as always, she fucking knew _all_ of this. Okay, Cat, you win — FBI is _not_ Fabulous But Incompetent. Way to abuse the system and capitalize on the situation. Just like Barbara said — goddamn spider. Livid now, my fists clench powerlessly beneath the heavy cuffs. 

As for Redhorn and Blockbuster… the facts are, I could be nailed as an accessory after the fact in Redhorn’s death — and an accessory to murder in Blockbuster’s. If all the facts come to light. The best case scenario is that they won’t have enough evidence to go on or hold me, but that won’t protect me from suspension — or even from losing my badge. 

That thought is a hot, bleeding weight in my abdominals. I love my job — I mean _I love my job._ Losing it would be no different than Bruce losing Batman — it will kill me from the inside out, slowly, toxically, completely. 

Not that everything Catalina’s done up to now hasn’t already accomplished that — 

And isn’t that what she wants? Surely she seeks now to _ruin_ me after I rejected her with irreversible finality this morning — 

I grit my teeth, _maddened_ that my hands are both literally and figuratively tied. No longer do I have the element of surprise, the advantage of the first move — my intention had been to go right to Amy, and tell her what I knew. How I knew it, what evidence existed, where to find it. That she’s aware of my night life would actually prove an asset in this case. And I could do it quietly — behind the scenes, as Nightwing, and not as Dick Grayson. 

But now, the entire department has fingered me as a batterer and murderer — I don’t have much of a leg to stand on, turning around and accusing Catalina in turn now. And considering that I did, in fact, have a part in all cases, I am, just like Fregley said, in a _lot_ of trouble. No pristine record, recognitions of heroism on the job, trust fund, or loaded foster dad will mitigate the enormous mess I just found myself in. 

But either way, resisting Fregley won’t do me any favors, either. So I do the only thing I can do. I cooperate. 

“Listen, you idiot —” Barbara is hissing at Fregley, trailing us, “I don’t know what moron forged your transcript, but if you have a single brain cell _somewhere_ in that thick skull of yours, you’ll know Catalina Flores has a notorious history with the BPD — vendettas against both Redhorn _and_ Grayson here — and she’s got every motive in the book to _lie_ to you out of both sides of her teeth.” 

“Barb,” I say, plucking my spirits up the best I can, determining now to _fight_ this, “it’s okay. It’s going to be fine —” 

Fregley shoves me hard enough to nearly cause me to lose my footing. 

Okay. Point taken. Time to actually shut up this time. If I keep running my mouth and things _don’t_ transpire in my favor in the next few hours, every word I issue right now will come right back to plow me straight up the ass with Fregley on the arrest. 

“You should probably take it easy, Freg,” Claycomb says, and I entertain a moment of gratitude to him. He’s a perfectly decent human being who has the vast misfortune of being partnered with Officer Fugly. 

Barbara calls my name as Claycomb — a lot more gently, with a murmured “Sorry about this, man,” — guides me to the door of the gym. I turn to her, catching her eye just before I’m pulled from the room. 

“I’m on this, okay?” she assures me. “I’m all over this — this _isn’t_ going to fly, she’s _not_ getting away with it this time —” 

There’s comfort in her words — the Oracle, at times, feels like a borderline omnipotent, god-like force, pulling even the most inaccessible information from the tiniest nooks and crannies in the darkest regions of the web. At the same time, though, I don’t know how much getting me out of this there actually is — unless the Angel of Death is, in fact, truly capable of erasing blood evidence, and he did so without leaving a trace at the Red Line Station. (I’m skeptical about his claims regarding this preternatural ability, but I’ve also, granted, seen weirder things.) Otherwise, the DNA will be what nails me in the end and corroborates Catalina’s account, whatever it is. 

Damn, damn, _damn._

The mansion’s gym is on the first floor of the reaching edifice that is Wayne Manor, nearby the kitchen, not far from the main entryway. Bruce is on his phone in the foyer already, speaking firmly into it, and from his words, I’m guessing he’s talking to an attorney. His jaw is set, his lips thinned, his eyes flat and inscrutable — his Batman face, the one no one actually witnesses behind the mask. Determined, solemn, focused. Regardless of what happens — between him and Barbara, there’s half a prayer I won’t spend my life in prison. 

It’s so strange that not even an hour ago I had planned to do so, that I’d fully intended to give myself over to that ending. But I hadn’t had any intention of sacrificing myself on the altar of the law and shouldering the whole of the blame — Catalina had ended two (three) lives on my watch with her own hands, cruelly, remorselessly. She _must_ be brought to justice. And I was going to be sure that happened, equally ready to take responsibility for my own part in her crimes. 

But now, with Catalina planting herself behind the wheel and driving this particular car, our course for now under her control, I’m no longer willing to travel to the place it’s carrying me — I am _not_ taking the entirety of the fall and the rap for her crimes after she vengefully hurls me to the wolves and then skips off scot free, playing the victim card and eliciting sympathy from those around her with her machinations and lies. 

There is, of course, a part of me that wants to scream _why,_ to get her alone and demand she answer me in a way that explains her actions to me in a way they might be justified by even the longest stretch, to make me _understand_ why she’s doing what she’s doing, just — why, why, _why —_

But I know why, all the reasons. I _know_ her headspace. I’ve seen this before in cases I’ve worked — smaller scale, less power, fewer variables — but I’ve seen this, and I know it inside and out by now. 

_And the small fact that she thinks she owns you —_

She does, I realize with a jolt of anger and offense as I recall Barbara’s words. Catalina _does_ think she owns me, regards me as though I’m little more than an inanimate object, one that just happens to have inexplicable import to her. I’m some defiant pet that dared taste freedom jumping the fence and running, who’s fixing to get a serious whuppin’ when he returns — 

Alfred jars me out of my thoughts when he falls into step beside us. His eyes are glittering and hard, the set of his features fixed and glacial. He’s angry — _very_ angry. 

There’s some odd, juvenile vindication in knowing that Catalina, for the first time, doesn’t actually realize what she’s dealing with. Who she’s opted to mess with. She just poked the fucking _dragon_ that is my family, the Bat Family, the Young Justice tribe — and she has no sword, no shield, no mage to defend her against its inspiring rage. 

“Rest assured we’ll see you before the night’s over, sir,” he murmurs. “This won’t be a longstanding state of affairs — we’ll see to it. You have our word.” 

Fregley yanks me out of the house at this, throwing his entire body into the motion, about sending me down the steps — asshole. Thanks to my acrobat’s footing, I right myself before I can stumble, in spite of my blown knee. 

“Yeah, we’ll see about that, rich boy,” he says. 

“Come on,” Claycomb exclaims, moving to help steady me. “You need to calm down, Freg.” 

“Nope — I’ve waited for this moment for years. Always wanted to be the one to take Golden Boy down off his throne,” Fregley says happily, grasping my head and pushing me into the back of his cruiser hard enough to jar my neck. Again — asshole. Like this prick wasn’t taking _massive_ payouts from Desmond to run seriously dangerous, illegal drugs and other black market contraband through the precinct only a few weeks ago. 

Still, he’s got the upper hand at the moment, and the only thing I can do is stay silent. 

The cruiser is parked in the driveway by the fountain outside. Within view, some GCPD officers mingle with a handful of others from the BPD, likely making note of the fact that I’ve been located and detained, both districts working together to ensure I was brought in. I keep my mouth shut the entire drive to Blüdhaven, inhaling and exhaling, struggling to breathe meditatively and calm the writhing anxiety that seethes in my gut and gullet. 

As for Fregley, he all but whistles and skips as we enter the station, his hand roughly gripping the cuffs. He makes a big show of shoving me into the interrogation room as a fevered murmuring breaks out among the officers on duty. He slams my butt onto a chair across the table from him. 

To my enormous relief, Amy comes in, holding two cups of coffee. She notes my cuffed hands, and casts Fregley the look of a thousand deaths. 

“I’ll be conducting the interrogation, Fregley,” she announces, setting down the coffee. “Uncuff Corporal Grayson, please, and wait for the day’s assignments from Turpin in the bullpen.” 

“Respectfully, Chief, I made the arrest, and it’s my case,” Fregley says. “Shouldn’t I be the one to question Grayson?” 

“It’s not your case. Corporal Grayson is my subordinate, and it’s my duty to question him about the complaints against him as his superior officer — not to mention the tiny fact that I think your little vendetta against him might cloud your judgment,” Amy states. “Take the cuffs off and join Officer Claycomb outside. Turpin will give you your remaining assignments for the day.” 

“You’re kidding, right, Chief?” 

“No,” she says. “I wouldn’t trust you with this one as far as I can throw you, and considering you’ve been getting a little enthusiastic about the donuts in the break room, I can’t say that’s too far. Cuffs off, out of the interrogation room, wait for Turpin. _Now.”_

“Maybe your favoritism is blinding you,” Fregley grumbles, although he acquiesces in removing the cuffs. My heart slows a little now they’re off. 

“One more comment about my objectivity and I’ll write you up for misconduct,” Amy says. “You’re lucky I don’t write you up for smacking Grayson around when, according to Claycomb, witnesses, and cams, he cooperated. He’s my officer, my subordinate, this is my department — ergo, my case. I’ll handle it. Now go.” 

Fregley acquiesces with ill grace, and I place my elbows on the table, and press my face into my hands with a sigh as the door closes behind him. 

“Good Lord,” Amy mutters. “I swear he’s got a rattlesnake not too far up the family tree.” She sits down across from me. “Dick, if I hadn’t been up to my eyeballs all morning, I’d _never_ have allowed Fregley to be the one to bring you down here. I’m sorry that one slipped by me.” 

“It’s okay,” I say. “Claycomb was decent.” 

“Good.” She leans toward me. “Now. You’re clear on the allegations that brought you here?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Fregley was clear with you about the fact that you’ve been accused of physical assault and battery, and were implicated as having involvement in the disappearance of Roland Desmond and the murder of Delmore Redhorn? And that it was Catalina Flores who accused you?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you willing to talk to me about these allegations? Do you want to wait for a lawyer?” 

I inhale, and get ready. Here goes nothing. I’m feeling pangs of very real trepidation sitting here right now — but I trust Amy. “I’m willing to talk. A lawyer should be on her way soon.” 

She nods. “Okay. I understand that you and Catalina Flores have something of a history. Do you want to explain it to me, get that part out of the way so _I’m_ clear on everything?” 

I take a breath. Amy is aware of a good portion of what transpired during my brief relationship with Cat, but only the surface, and this is an official interview — whether or not Amy knows the bones of the story, it needs to be spelled out for legal purposes now. I wonder who, if anyone, is looking in from the other side of the mirror. Possibly no one, if Amy wants to keep this one as low-profile and quiet as possible. 

Ridiculously, a line from _Jaws_ runs through my head, and threatens to send me off the edge into a fit of hysterical, overwrought giggles — _I can do anything, I’m the Chief of Police!_

I keep it together. “She was a friend of mine. We got drunk one night, went a little too far —” 

“Too far how?” 

“We had sex,” I elucidate. I run a hand through my hair. “It was a mistake — I ended it not long after under amiable terms, but she came to me later claiming she was pregnant, so I stayed with her and determined to raise the baby together. Later I found out she was lying about the pregnancy — she’d fabricated it to try keeping me in a relationship with her, so I ended it for good that time. It was a while before I saw or spoke to her again.” 

“She admitted to fabricating the pregnancy so you’d stay in the relationship with her?” 

“Yes,” I say. “Dr. Skagle over at RABE can confirm if need be.” 

“Did you ever get rough with Catalina?” Amy asks. “I mean, that’s a serious thing to put you through, perfectly decent men have snapped over less — at any point in your relationship, did you get violent with her, or hit her?” 

I shake my head. “No, I never hit her.” 

Amy sighs, and pinches the bridge of her nose. I know that motion — _It’s going to be a long day._

“Did you ever talk to anyone about this, what happened between the two of you?” she asks. 

“I did, yes,” I answer. 

“Who did you talk to?” 

“Uhh, lots of people, actually — my foster dad, Alfred Pennyworth who runs the manor, my… fiancée, Barbara Gordon, my foster brothers, Jason and Tim, umm… my best friends, Artemis and Wally West, the DA, Catalina’s brother, Mateo, and my partner, Corporal Malloy.” 

Amy nods. “Okay. And did you ever… have any _altercations_ with Catalina, over everything you’ve described, or anything else?” 

I sigh. “Yes. This morning.” 

“Did you hit her or strike her in any way during this altercation?” 

“No. She grabbed me and — I pushed her away from me. I didn’t hit or strike her.” 

“But you pushed her.” 

“Yes.” 

“Why did you push her?” 

My guts churn. “I just — I just _reacted._ I didn’t want her touching me.” 

“Why not?” 

I look up at Amy, and shake my head. “Chief… I don’t know how much more I should say.” 

She’s gazing intently at me. “Without a lawyer?” 

I steel myself. “Something like that.” 

“What was the altercation?” 

“She showed up unexpected on the manor grounds,” I reply. “I told her that after what happened the last time I saw her, I never wanted to see her again. It got heated, it escalated, she grabbed me, I pushed her away.” 

“What happened the last time you saw her?” 

I’m quiet. 

Amy sighs. “I’m just going to throw this out here and hope it connects the dots — does it have anything to do with Roland Desmond or Delmore Redhorn? Is that why you’re hesitating?” 

I’m silent. I swallow. 

Well, I’m all in, sans lawyer or otherwise. Amy knows about my night life — and there’s the terrible possibility that the rest of the department will find out soon, too, given the time has come to start flapping my gums while doubtless on _Candid Camera: BPD Edition._ Rachel Dawes’ presence won’t shift the truth, won’t change my renewed determination to tell it, and my alter-ego is pivotal in it. And it’s time it was told. 

Well. Goodbye, double life. Sorry, Babs. I know I said I wouldn’t implicate myself, but I don’t see much other recourse. 

“Yes,” I state. 

There’s a pause. 

“Listen, Corporal Grayson,” Amy murmurs. “We got all hands on deck to bring you in for questioning because Catalina had details about both Desmond’s disappearance and Redhorn’s murder that were never released to the press or public. She claims that she got that information because you confessed to killing both those men to her and gave her these same details. She then alleged that you pushed her and threatened to hurt her worse if she talked — and that it wasn’t the first time that you’d been violent with her.” 

I stare at Amy, and sag in my chair. 

I’m just about out of gas at this point. 

This is never going to end. Catalina will stop at nothing. Murder, manipulation, emotional abuse, lies, sabotage, conspiracy, _rape,_ even — 

The thought jars me briefly. I hadn’t actually used the word up to now, even in thinking. My stomach fish-flops. My flesh crawls, constricting and going crackly, like dry rubber. My mouth parches. 

I’ve dealt with hardened criminals day in and day out. I know a dangerous character, a violent offender. I’ve stood in the presence of mass murderers, fought hand-to-hand with supervillains and genocidaires. I’ve cuffed and questioned serial rapists, cartels, hitmen, vigilantes who readily crossed the line. I’ve locked up cold-blooded killers. 

I’ve never truly felt _fearful_ for my own skin, not habitually worried about my own safety beyond the instinctive sublevel buzz of its intrinsic frequency, but as I sit now, a very real trepidation steals over me like a poisonous shroud. 

As long as Catalina is free, no one is safe. 

Barbara was absolutely right. There’s not a doubt in my mind now that Catalina is behind the attacks on the circus and apartment building, that she manipulated and betrayed Blockbuster with every intention of killing him from the beginning. A part of me actually feels _sorry_ for Roland in retrospect. He had originated from a modest IQ, skyrocketed in an instant to an astronomical one — his emotional intelligence never had a chance to get there. He’s a figure akin to Charlie from _Flowers for Algernon_ or even Jobe from _The Lawnmower Man,_ pitiable and tragic. Meanwhile, Catalina took advantage of him and masterminded the unimaginable cruelty — targeting my loved ones, including my three-year-old godchildren, ten-year-old Alejandro, slews of innocents — to ensure that I would be left _alone_ at the end of the day, with no one to turn to… _except her._

And there’s an endgame here, too, I have no doubt. Vengeance, getting even, hurting me. Manipulating me in a roundabout, spectacular way into getting back together with her, lording my own involvement in these crimes over me, holding my part in each as leverage. Although, she can’t possibly believe she’ll get away with _everything,_ considering those same aforementioned twenty-five mistakes left at every crime scene — it could be she’s willing to offer to take the fall if I just agree to be with her, because after all, won’t that see me a free, untarnished man in a low-maintenance relationship separated by bars? That’s a reasonable pay-off, right? And what’s jail to her if she gets what she _wants_ at the end of the day? 

_Christ._

I grit my teeth, press the inside of my lip between them. I shake my head. 

“I can’t believe this,” I mutter. “I just can’t believe this.” 

“Dick, I hate to say it,” Amy says, “but she _was_ all bruised up and clearly very shaken when she came in, and if there’s anyone that had ample motive to murder Desmond… it was you. And with Redhorn, I know there was no love lost between the two of you, either. The two of you butted heads from the moment you started work here. You understand why I had to take her claims seriously — even if it _killed_ me to bring you in like this, and even if her allegations seemed completely ludicrous.” She sighs. “Not to mention your own hands look a bit rough."

"I kind of unloaded on a punching bag this morning," I sigh. "I didn't bother to tape my hands. But I did _not_ unload on Catalina. Never on Catalina."

There's a long, long stretch of quiet. 

“Setting that aside for now... Corporal Grayson,” Amy says quietly. “ _Do_ you know something about Desmond’s disappearance?” 

I remain quiet a moment, preparing myself. The truth is going to hurt me, but it’s the one thing that will oust Catalina from her perceived position of power — and Amy deserves to hear the truth, and nothing _but_ the truth, so help me God. There’s absolutely no sense in lying now, anyway. 

“Yes,” I say. 

“Do you know something about Redhorn’s murder?” 

“Yes.” 

“Are you willing to answer questions about both?” 

“Yes.” 

Just now, there’s a knock on the door. Amy gets up, and touches the button for the intercom. 

“Who is it?” she queries. The intercom buzzes, and she presses the switch to enable audio. 

“It’s Mateo Flores. Let me inside.” 

“Mr. Flores, there’s an interrogation in progress in here.” 

“You need to let me in, Chief.” 

“Make it quick, Mat.” She opens the door, possibly on the same thought process that shot through my own mind — maybe Catalina said something to him that will corroborate either side of the story, and we’ll only find out which when he speaks. 

At the doorway, he looks somewhere between frantic and incensed. He barges into the room, and leans both hands on the table, angling toward me, his gaze hot and penetrating. 

“Dickie, you tell me this right now,” he says, his voice issued swiftly, his features hard-set, his eyes boring into mine. “Did you hit her? Did you hit my sister —” 

Amy swoops in now his reason for being here has been revealed. “Mr. Flores, for the second time, you are interrupting an official interrogation —” 

He holds up a hand. “Amy, just let me ask him. Off the books, off the record. I _need_ to ask him. I need to know.” He gestures at me. “Did you?” 

I fervently shake my head. “No, Mat, I never hit her — I _swear_ I never hit her.” 

“You sure? Because she’s all scratched up and saying you threw her into a tree this morning! And she’s said it’s not the first time!” 

The anger and suspicion on his face are real — his eyes are hot and glittering, his jaw clenched, his disposition hectic and wired. From what I can read — he _wants_ to believe me, is grasping at any explanation that would exonerate me at this point, but he doesn’t want to disbelieve his sister, and he can’t explain away what his eyes told him when he looked at her. The concept that I — his friend, his confidant, his ally — abused and hurt his loved one is a betrayal on a massive scale, but the idea that his own sister, the same that he grew up with and safeguarded and has loved all his life, would lie to him about something so grievous — it’s equally massive. It’s plain to see that he’s torn, hovering, conflicted. 

But I can also see it, looking at him — all of his doubt. All of his suspicion. All of his waiting fury. The preparing to hear that I’m a liar, a batterer, a total bastard — and not the person he thought I was. That I pulled the wool over his eyes, hoodwinked him, tricked him. 

Blood is thicker than water. He will, of course, lean toward Catalina — unless proven otherwise beyond an irrevocable doubt. He will trust her, believe her first. While she might have lied to him about something major recently, it doesn’t mean she’s made a habit of doing so in the past — and it doesn’t mean she’d lie about _this._ Faking a pregnancy to maintain a desperately wanted love is _not_ the same as lying about murder confessions and abuse. 

Even while I totally understand Mat in this moment — it about does me in. I can cope with being arrested and dragged out of my home in cuffs. I can handle Officer Fugly marking me for a murderer or a corrupt cop. I can deal with losing face temporarily with the department. I can contend with accepting the consequences for everything that’s happened, everything I’ve messed up. 

But… this. Losing Mat’s faith like this, losing my friend’s confidence, feeling his belief in me as it quavers and weakens — 

It’s heartbreak on a level I didn’t anticipate. The pain shoots through me like a bolt of lightning, splitting my heart in two, its aftershocks felt in all of my limbs. 

In a flash, the heartbreak mixes with a white-hot anger — anger that Catalina placed us here, good friends at once pitted against each other, that she’s again hurt her brother, and me, with her endless lies. 

“Mat — listen,” I say desperately. “I know what it all looks like, I know what she had to have told you, but I _swear_ I never hit her. I never lifted a hand to her —” 

“But did you _push_ her?” 

“It’s not what it looks like, Mat,” I say, knowing that it might, in fact, get out that I pushed her and _admitted_ to pushing her, and that at that point, the cat will be out of the bag and then Mat will have the added insult of being lied to. There’s also the possibility that he already heard me say it, standing on the other side of that mirrored wall. I just have to _pray_ that he’ll lend credence to the rest of the story. 

“So you pushed her.” 

Amy cuts me off when I start to reply. “Dick, be quiet. And Mat, _that’s enough,”_ she barks, her tone firm and final. “This is an official interview. You need to leave the room or I’ll consider this obstructing official business.” 

“Can’t I sit in on an interview that might come to charges as the DA?” Mat asks, gesturing at Amy. 

“Mr. Flores, you _can’t_ participate in this interview,” Amy states. “You have a tremendous conflict of interest here that means you should march right back out that door. You’re welcome to listen in from there, but you are _not_ to participate. I’m sorry about everything, Mat — I understand she’s your sister — but you need to separate yourself from this. Your being here is conflictual and unprofessional. It’s being handled — let me handle it.” 

Mat inhales, and exhales, then wipes his forehead. He mutters in Spanish, shaking his head, and then leaves the room. 

I breathe out in a long, drawn-out huff, then bury my face in my hands, my heart embedded somewhere in the floor. Amy closes the door, and engages the deadbolt. She turns to me, eyeing me a moment. Her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she answers, her voice a low key hum as she speaks to whoever is on the line. 

“Well, your lawyer is here, and so is your foster dad,” Amy says, thumbing the screen and repocketing the cell. “Miss Dawes will be present for the remainder of the interview, and Bruce said he’ll be waiting out front. Listen, though, Dick, and I’ll repeat this question when your lawyer is present — when the interview’s complete, would you be willing to submit to a polygraph test?” 

I look up at her, and nod. 

“Yes,” I state. 

xxxxx 

“So,” Gannon says, sitting by me hours later in the otherwise empty interrogation room, both of us with replenished cups of coffee. “Nightwing.” 

I sigh, and nod. I had passed the polygraph with flying colors, and once I’d been released from the polygraph examination room into this one to await the final outcome, Gannon had come in. 

The second I saw him, the moment I saw the worry and concern on his face — nothing but that same worry and concern, no suspicion, no condemnation, nothing even of that nature — for the second time today, I unraveled all over again. 

And when he asked me to give him the story, I did. Every inch of it. It’ll all come out anyway, if anything comes to charges. And I know it very well might — in fact, it probably will. No matter what my responses were, no matter how Rachel (who knows all about us in the Bat Fam) shepherded my answers, no matter how my own experience guided their wording. 

Every facet of the sordid tale of Nightwing and Tarantula™ came to semi-forensic light through succinct, probing questions catered to what I revealed in the interrogation, as I sat hooked to the polygraph — from the traffic stop, to discovering Catalina by Redhorn’s body, to mentoring her as Tarantula, to the falling out at RABE, to the horrible night at Redline Station and the incident on the roof, to the fateful confrontation only this morning. 

It was dead silent following the final question and answer as the results were reviewed, the mood in the room gone dark, murky, somber. As for me, once the sensors were removed, I just sat silently, too exhausted and sapped to cry, my heart an aching rock in my chest. 

_Keep one arm up in guard,_ Dinah’s voice whispered unbidden into my thoughts as I sat in silence, _always protect yourself._

I didn’t. Always wanting to see the good in others, to make up for Bruce’s endless, hurtful mistrust and reticence, I didn’t protect myself. 

After this, that will _never_ happen again. On some level, I feel I’ve lost something, some critical part of myself that made me who I am — but on another, I feel this loss is a good thing. A good thing long overdue. 

Still so many terrible parts of the polygraph examination echo in my mind, murmuring their awful words, playing themselves out eternally across my anamnesis. All these memories given voice — the same memories that will transmorph into nightmares sure to haunt me until the end of my days. 

— _Did you fail to turn Catalina Flores in as Redhorn’s confessed murderer, as a criminal vigilante, because she was the sister of a friend, and you felt that you could rehabilitate her,_ save _her?_

_Yes. —_

— _Did you allow Flores to take the shot that killed Blockbuster because you felt that he would continue to target and threaten you, that you and your loved ones were not going to be safe as long as he was alive?_

_Yes._

_It wasn’t because you wanted revenge, because you hated him, because you thought he deserved to die?_

_No._

_Was this a spur-of-the-moment decision, an impulsive decision — did you feel there was no other recourse in the moment you made the decision?_

_Yes. —_

— _Dick, would you say that Catalina Flores forced herself on you?_

… _Yes. —_

— _Did you ever hit Catalina Flores?_

_No._

_Do you feel you were defending yourself when you pushed her this morning?_

_Yes. —_

I thought that I should have felt some relief at having ventilated the enormous pressure of those suppressed events for the second time since this morning — something of a double catharsis, at the least — but I just felt utterly, utterly drained, and more than a little edgy and unnerved. The notion that I’d seen an evil spirit, some monster in the vein of the Beast of Bray Road, the same sense that I’d experienced since the night on the roof, never shook itself even a little. Speaking of it only rendered it more corporeal, more threatening, more _real._

Sitting now with Gannon, I feel strange, disconnected — again, not at all like myself, just as I felt sitting with Barbara earlier. The beast shifts about in the dark corners nearby, out of sight, but sensed, setting me forever on edge. 

But Gannon’s loved, trusted presence keeps the beast at bay — stalling it where it shifts in the darkness, not allowing it to come any closer, creating a barrier between it and me. 

I want to stay in this room, with Gannon. But I don’t know what end this nightmarish day will see for me, and I know these peaceful moments in this room with my partner will have to come to a close eventually. 

Who knows what evidence they’ll find at Red Line. But the odds are good that if the Angel of Death _isn’t_ as able to remove blood and DNA evidence as he claims (and I’ll concede very much appears) to be, they’ll find my signature all over that place. When the time comes to swab me, they’ll be able to connect me to that location, and there’s no promise that Catalina left anything of that nature behind that the Angel of Death might have missed. For whatever good it might do, the truth needed to be brought to light, to flesh out and lend context to the partial images that any remaining evidence might patchily present. Doubtless, that Blockbuster and I brawled, Catalina murdered him while I cheered, and then we fucked like minks while his body went cold in the stairwell below. 

I shudder, and try to push those thoughts away. 

“One and the same, partner,” I say in response to Gannon’s observation. 

He gazes at me a while, his expression mostly unreadable — although his eyes are perfectly warm. 

“Well,” he says, and sips his coffee, “I will say it explains a _hell_ of a lot.” 

I incline my head, and lift my own cup, smelling the brew within. Decent stuff from Gan’s Keurig. It occurs to me with a mental thunking sensation that I haven’t eaten since the morning of the apartment bomb. I take a sip of the coffee, and sigh. My limbs are shaking, tremulous, weak. “Like why I occasionally have a tendency to up and disappear like Peter Parker?” 

He chuckles. “Yeah. That. And why you’d show up every so often looking like you’d gone through a meat grinder and never have a satisfactory explanation for it. How you were able to hold your own against a meta like Desmond and entire gangs of street thugs without ever having to use your weapon.” He shakes his head, and chuckles again. “You know, I feel a little stupid, actually — like I should have figured it out by now.” 

I shake my own head. “Well, don’t forget the position it puts you in on the job, now.” 

He smiles. “Well, Dickie, like it is with Amy… your secret’s safe with me.” 

I’m quiet a moment, studying the coffee in my cup. I feel guilty, putting him in the place it does, but there’s a powerful relief in him finally knowing, too. Lying to him, deceiving him — it had been a heavier burden than I’d realized up to now. 

And if there’s anyone I can trust, it’s Gannon Malloy. He’s proven it time and time again. It’s time I showed him that I trust him, and honored the faith we have in one another. 

“Thanks, partner,” I murmur, and try to smile back at him. 

His own smile fades, and he eyes me soberly. 

“So all that happened, huh?” he asks. 

I nod, still focused on the dark liquid reflecting the sickly glare of the overhead fluorescent lights. 

He shakes his head. “Stranger than fiction, man.” 

Again, I nod. 

“You gonna be okay? And I don’t mean in the long run, just… in the short-term sense?” 

I shrug. 

“Look,” he says. “You know if you ever need a place to crash and just kind of… I don’t know, regroup — you’ve always got one at mine. And you can stay as long as you want.” 

I smile over at him, finally able to do so. “I appreciate it, Gan. But… I have a feeling the only place I’m bound for after this is Lockhaven.” I shake my head. “You know… I could have avoided _so much_ if I just hadn’t been so blinkered to everything. Barbara always said I was too trusting and too ready to see only the good in people. I used to think she was being unfair, like… I didn’t want to end up like Batman, you know? Which is a conversation for another day, but… bottom line is I just should have listened to her.” I rest my forehead in my hand. “But I didn’t… and I trusted the wrong person. And now here we are.” 

Gannon sighs. “Well, Catalina never came off as someone who could have done all of this — there was just something _wounded_ about her, like… something that made you want to reach out to her. I even got that from her, you know? You couldn’t have known it would end like this.” He pauses a moment, then lays a hand on my shoulder. I find I don’t mind it being there. “And listen — I don’t think you’re going to wind up in Lockhaven. You ended up here because you have a big heart, Dick. That’s hardly a crime. It just… isn’t always good for protecting yourself.” 

I’m about to reply when the door to the interrogation room opens. Amy enters. 

“Well, Corporal Grayson, you’re free to go —” she says. 

“See, didn’t I call it?” Gannon exclaims jubilantly, giving my shoulder a squeeze. 

“However, if you wouldn’t mind taking a second, I _really_ need to talk to you in my office in private for a moment,” Amy adds. “Now.” 

I frown, too confused by this last to experience any relief at her unexpected announcement, and casting a glance at Gannon, I stand to follow Amy to her office. 

“What’s going on?” I ask as she shuts her door. 

“Well,” she says, her expression dark, “I just came into some information that just threw your case into a whole new dimension. It might take a minute to go over, so if you want to sit down, I’d sit.” 

Oh, God, what now — 

I do want to sit, considering how much my knee is bothering me, so I do, and get ready for it. “All right… Hit me, I’m open.” 

“First things first, you’re being released and all the charges dropped because the Oracle contacted me — and sent me a ZIP _packed_ with files that have blown this entire case wide open.” 

Barbara, as always, delivers — although going by the expression on Amy’s face and her tone, her findings are _not_ pleasant. 

“Going on everything contained in this ZIP, which on first examination by our specialist has been determined legit — you’re going to be offered immunity in exchange for your testimony against Catalina Flores. I don’t know how far I can protect your identity, but I’ll do what I can. Do you understand what I’m telling you?” 

I nod, by now on tenterhooks. “What was in the ZIP?” 

“Well, let me just consider where to begin,” Amy says with a humorless wryness, and sucks her teeth, as though considering carefully. “The Oracle turned up files on Catalina Flores’ PC that… well, they really change the game, we’ll just say that much. For the time being, I’m waiting on a search warrant for her home and vehicle to legally acquire all the evidence the Oracle sent, because it’s not like materials gained through unlawful hacking will be permissible in court. But last I checked, the Oracle doesn’t send bum or deficient documents, and the ZIP was prefaced with the message that this was intended to blow the whistle on her — and if these files are indeed authentic, which our expert stated they are on first glance, Catalina Flores’ crimes go _leagues_ beyond murdering Redhorn and Desmond.” She gestures a bit. “Physically turning up this incriminating PC and the burner phone she’s connected and synced to it will end up with her facing so many charges she will _never_ see the free world outside prison walls again. And who _knows_ what other evidence she might have holed up in her house.” 

“What was in the files?” I ask. 

“It’s a laundry list. There was evidence linking her to working with Roland Desmond as part of the Blockbuster Gang, which included a job you’ll be interested in knowing about — meting out the deaths of the same twenty-one gang members that you and Malloy were assisting on investigating. Deaths that she was working to frame _Redhorn_ for. There were transcripts of messages between her and who appeared to be none other than Desmond that _heavily_ incriminate her in Redhorn’s murder — and anyone who’s worked a day in this department is on _some_ level aware of what Delmore Redhorn did to her and her fiancé. But it goes deeper than that, Dick — there were also search histories that indicate she may very well have poisoned your friend Irving from Haly’s, there was evidence of contact with Firefly and more transcripts that indicate she had direct involvement in the fire at the circus and the explosion at your apartment building, there were records indicating she purchased an assault rifle under the table, there was documentation that she had contact with an unknown party that we can assume to be this figure you mentioned she’d go to for clean-up…” She shakes her head. “Dick, the list goes on and on. On top of the other things the Oracle found… And listen, I feel compelled to mention that I was told this same PC is heavily protected. Consistent with the protections you’d find on a _smart_ career criminal’s PC. If you didn’t have this friend in this high place…” Amy pauses. “Let’s just say your night might be ending a little differently. I don’t doubt your foster father would have posted your bail, but I’d have had no choice but to suspend you until the investigation was complete. You’re very lucky to be so closely affiliated with someone like the Oracle who was able to find the truth, or at least such a huge part of it, so quickly.” She leans toward me a little. “As for right now, thankfully, we have resources of our own that should be able to garner the evidence from the incriminating machine on an official circuit. In the meantime, you are free to go, your job here is secure, and you’ll be granted immunity in exchange for your testimony when the time comes.” 

I slacken in the chair, and breathe out. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” I say, meaning those words with everything I have, although my mind is racing madly under the onslaught of information I’ve just been given. Some of it just confirmed things I already knew or suspected — but others open up doors to whole new horrifying territories. 

Those twenty-one gang members. Irving. 

I release a breath. God, this is too much. 

Amy leans closer toward me. “But listen to me, Dick — this woman is about as dangerous as dangerous is ever going to get. When you leave here in the next few minutes, you go _nowhere_ alone, you understand? Because although we’re keeping mum about this, if it gets out we’re after her now before we can actually bring her in and she hears that you’ve been released — there’s no telling what she’ll do.” 

I stand, and again release a breath. Amy doesn’t have to tell me twice. “Understood. Again — thanks for everything, Chief.” 

“You watch yourself — be careful. I mean it. And _please_ eat something and get some rest, Grayson,” Amy says kindly. “You look just about dead on your feet, not to mention I can tell you’ve lost weight. Granted, hearing what I’ve heard, knowing what I do… it’s not surprising.” 

I nod, by now just feeling completely bone tired, wanting nothing more than to find some surface and faceplant into it. 

“Your foster father is waiting for you in the front,” Amy says, and I head disbelieving out of her office. 

I’m numb and buzzing, exhausted and keyed up, hot and cold, focused and scattered all at once. Thoughts flit through my mind like darting birds. Coming out into the front, I’m surprised to find that not only is Bruce there, but Alfred, Jason, and Tim, opting to be home from college and pulling himself from his team duties to be here, as well. 

“Get over here, you fuckin’ criminal,” Jason says, standing and coming up to me. 

Jason doesn’t initiate affectionate contact much — he’s just not one to readily dish out a lot of hugs, although he’ll always accept one immediately and without question when it’s offered to him. His standing and wrapping both his arms around me is entirely unexpected, catching me a little off-guard and reminding me of how _serious_ this entire situation is. I’ve always been the one to hug him — rarely has it been the other way around. 

I don’t know how much he knows, how much he heard — I’m not even certain of how much Bruce, Alfred, and Tim are aware of. But if I had to guess, Barbara had to have brought them into the fold after her terrible discoveries — and hence, they are all here. The entire pack, converging to protect the endangered member. 

Jason’s touch is far from unsettling. If anything, it’s a panacea, an elixir. It’s a goddamn _safe haven._ I hurl both my arms around him, and just bury my face in my brother’s enormous shoulder. Alfred comes up to us, hugging us both, then Tim, and finally, by golly making it a chilly day in Hell — Bruce. All of us huddling together, all of my family sheltering me, removing from me the burden of guardian and mediator, generally the task of the eldest — each of them taking on that role for me now. 

Something’s welled up thick in my throat, something I can’t swallow around, a softball that’s risen like a fist. My family gathering around me like this, guarding me, comforting me — it breaks open a burgeoning sac of serrated emotions inside, at last draining it, soothing what’s left behind. 

“Gannon and Barb are going to meet us at the manor,” Jason tells me when the embrace breaks. “Gan’s stuck around past his shift to see how this turned out — and frankly, dude, I’d say it’s time we lifted the no alcohol rule and had like fifty totally stiff drinks when we get back home.” 

I shake my head, and try to laugh. I manage a weak husk from my turgid throat. “Pass, Jay. It’s partly how I landed in this giant mess in the first place.” 

Jason chuckles. “Fair enough. But you’re at least going to eat something — you look like stick figure shit.” 

“What an amazing coincidental happenstance,” I say, attempting levity. “I _feel_ like stick figure shit.” 

"Well," Alfred states, "then the first thing we're doing upon arriving at home is feeding you, Master Richard. Then you are going to rest."

"That's all we want you doing for a while, Dick," Bruce tells me. "We'll discuss everything further at a later date, but for right now, the only thing that you should focus on is recuperating. You're still injured and you've had a _bad_ time — you should probably maintain your leave from work for a while yet." He glances over at me, the unusual quality of paternity warming his eyes. "And listen. You'll be safe at the manor until Catalina is brought in. We'll have everything covered. Like I said, for now... just focus on recuperating."

I do my best to smile at him. "Aye, aye, Captain."

Bruce falls into step on one side of me, Alfred my other. Jason leads the way to the car. Tim follows. I walk between them, the feeling surreal. I’m usually the one doing the guarding, the watching over, the protecting. It’s odd to even feel I _need_ protection — and even more so to accept it like this. 

Leaving the station, I’m surprised to see the sky is darkening into evening, the gloaming overhead darkest gray and diffusing into a deep violet on what horizons are visible through the swamp of derelict buildings that comprise the Blüdhaven landscape. Sitting in the back of the Navigator, it slowly settles into my awareness that I’m somehow free, that I’m not in any lasting trouble, that my job remains secure. I rub at my forehead. The fact is… I don’t feel free. I don’t feel out of trouble. And I don’t feel at all secure. 

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot. And even when it’s over, it still won’t have ended. 

I look out the window, and breathe in. 

_They’re going to bring her in,_ I assure myself, _they’ll see to it she’s brought in, they’ll bring her in for questioning and they’ll find all the materials on her computer that Barbara sent to Amy…_

But there won’t be any rest for me until she’s locked up. 

Even now, a part of me prepares to see her waiting for us when we draw up to the manor gates, part of me expects to find her within the mansion walls, part of me thinks she’ll be in my bedroom when I open the door. Nothing stopped her from showing up in that stairwell. Nothing kept her from appearing on that ledge on the manor grounds. Nothing stopped her from targeting my loved ones, innocents. 

I grit my teeth. What’s still worse is I keep waiting for a phone call — Wally on the other end, telling me something’s happened to Artemis and their children, or Jim, telling me that something’s happened to Barbara — 

I know they can look after themselves. But so could I — and where am I now? 

My stomach rolls and my heart thunders. 

I don’t know if this will ever truly be over. When Catalina’s behind bars, will I still be wired like this, jumping at shadows, looking for ghosts, expecting bad news on the other side of every phone call or message? Will I still feel this pervasive sense of being unsettled, that something, somewhere, isn’t right? Or will her incarceration be the first step toward feeling _safe,_ toward healing, toward stepping forth and salving the wounds she’s left? 

Or will it make no difference at all? It was years before I stopped seeing Zucco’s face around corners, in dark spaces, on strangers. Even now, I sometimes still do. 

I just don’t know. I guess only time will tell. 

My fists clench, nails digging into palms. What I wouldn’t _give_ to be the one to turn the key and lock her up for good and all. 

The manor proves devoid of all life minus Ace, Bruce’s German shepherd, who greets us in his usual way, all wagging tail and dog kisses. The apparent vacancy doesn’t stop me from wandering the halls, though, checking, assuring. Only Barbara’s arrival, followed by Gannon’s, brings me back into the kitchen and away from my somewhat silly, paranoid ventures. 

Seeing Barbara as she enters the foyer, I can’t help but smile, knowing she was behind my finding myself here — free, at home, safe with my family — in the first place. 

“You,” I tell her as I approach her chair, “are a fiery, avenging angel.” 

She smiles in turn. “Oh, nah. Just your average Sailor Scout looking out for my Tuxedo Mask.” 

I lean down, and lean my forehead against hers a moment. I kiss her soft hair. 

“Thank you,” I murmur. 

“Always,” she says. “…How are you doing?” 

I lift a shoulder. “I don’t know, to be honest. It’s…” I shake my head. “It’s a lot. I’m not sure I’ve _absorbed_ everything yet, to be honest.” 

She half-smiles, and reaches up, thumbing my cheek. “I know, babe.” 

“I just… want to know she’s been caught,” I say. “I want this to at least be in the first stages of being over.” 

“It will be, and will be soon,” she says. “I sent everything I found to more people than just Amy. It’s only a matter of time.” 

I incline my head. “Who else did you send the files to?” 

“Anyone I could think of who might end up playing a relevant role in your case,” she says. “Look, there’s a lot more that I found, Dick, but… I asked Amy to stay quiet on some of it for now. I’m sorry I did that, but… I _really_ think it’s better you not know about how deep this whole thing with Catalina really goes for a while.” 

There’s a brief pause. 

“Well. Normally I’d bristle to hear you’re withholding information a la Bruce,” I say, “but I’m not sure I _want_ to know what the info is this time — so I’m not even going to ask.” 

Barbara looks much like I feel, that she, too, has seen a monster, a mythical beast, one that’s upset her sense and understanding of the concept of safety. She nods darkly, her eyes glassy and haunted in her pale face. Her brows are knitted in a frown over her freckled nose, her lips reddened from being chewed too much. 

“Probably a wise choice,” she says grimly. “One of these days we’ll talk about it, one of those future conversations we’ll be having when the time comes. Just… not right now. Right now you just need to eat, and you need to rest. And… Dick, you first and foremost need to recover and take some time to _heal._ However long that might be. Catalina will be brought in, and all the specialists will find everything that I did on her PC. Even if she’s emptied her house of incriminating evidence, that laptop that she’s dumped and stored everything on is more than enough to doom her to a cold cell with the girl version of Bubba —” 

“Big Boo?” I crack lightly. 

“Hey, now, I like Big Boo. Anyway… the PC is going to land her in jail for the rest of her natural life. Bottom line? Her goose is cooked.” Babs reaches over to me, and takes my hands. “It’s as good as over now. You’re safe. And soon so will everyone else be who might have been in danger from her.” 

I press my fingers into her palms, holding her gaze. Finally, I nod. 

“Barbara,” I say with feeling. “Again… Thank you.” 

She smiles up at me. “I’ll always look out for you, stud. You know that.” 

My eyes well a little. “Likewise, babe.” 

“I know.” 

I smile back, mine weak and small, but there. I don’t know how I will ever repay Barbara for everything she’s done. “I love you.” 

“Love you, too.” She squeezes my hands. “And remember. You’re safe here.” 

xxxxx 

The phone, the one I’d forgotten about, jangles startlingly on my nightstand, wresting me brutally from the depths of a black, dreamless, heavy sleep. I twist up out of the tangles of the bedsheets, pulling myself from their warm cocoon, blindly, sleepily seeking the cell. I’ve not slept properly in a long time — I’ve been dead to the world since falling atop my bed after dinner. 

I’m alone in my bedroom, the ceiling fan doing its hum-and-whir. Barbara sleeps down the hall in the guest suite, Tim, Bruce, and Alfred in their respective rooms, Jason with Gannon in the room that he’d claimed when he still lived here. 

For as much as I’ve been able to accept touch from trusted loved ones, I’m not sure I’m ready to sleep with Barbara. The protracted closeness, not to mention the strong probability of recurrent nightmares that will tear wounds barely skinned over asunder and disturb Barb — I would rather sleep alone. I wonder when — I wonder _if —_ I’ll feel comfortable sleeping beside her. I wonder if I’ll ever regain total comfort in intimacy, if I’ll ever make love again. If I’ll ever be _myself_ again. 

Barbara had been understanding, compassionate. She’d nodded, and reassured me that it would take time, that what I experienced couldn’t be magically dispelled by anything so simple as a perpetrator being locked up, a hug and cry sesh, or even pure willpower. 

“Dick, you’ve been through _so much,”_ she murmured to me before she left my bedroom. “Don’t feel like you need to be over it tomorrow, or even soon. The effects of everything you’ve experienced can be felt for _lifetimes._ You heal on your time and in your way, okay? I’ll be here for you, every step you take. And… please. Talk to Dinah.” 

When the door shut, I sat at the computer I still keep in my room at the manor, and emailed Dinah. That critical first step toward reclaiming myself, the seeking of _help._ I decided to praise myself for it, taking a moment to speak nicely to myself for making a _good_ choice after a series of misfires. Then finally, I read through the reams of backdated and recent messages and emails from my friends — all expressions of love and support after the fire and explosion, queries as to whether I was okay, how they could help. Word of my arrest hadn’t reached them yet, having been kept out of the news, and likely held under wraps by Bruce. 

I spent some time writing responses, exhausted by the time I was finished. For the first time in eons, I felt secure enough that I knew I would _rest_ when I lay down — and rest, I did. 

Until now, anyway. I lift the phone, and blink at the screen, sun-bright in the darkness of the room. 

I shoot upright, fully awake in an instant. 

_She’s_ calling. Catalina. 

My thoughts race. If she’s calling from her cell like this, she’s still free, she hasn’t been caught yet — and if I pick up and keep her talking long enough, they can track her by her cell signal and bring her in. Recording the call in the event that they can’t locate her won’t hurt, either, depending on what she has to say for herself. 

I take a breath, and thumb the screen to accept the call. I’m already out of bed, rushing to the computer to alert the BPD via instant message. I prepare for it — the manipulative words and emotions, the twisting of events and reality, the attempt to plant thoughts and ideas inside my head. I might have been susceptible to that once, believing this woman to be my friend, my teammate, my protégé, my lover. But I know what I’m dealing with now — the spider, the monster, the beast. 

What I’m _not_ prepared for, and what I don’t anticipate, is what I actually hear when I put the phone on speaker after activating the sound recorder on the PC. 

“Dick,” Catalina murmurs weakly after an extensive silence, her voice thick and broken, with such a profound _desolation_ in it that I’m brought up momentarily short. “Are you… are you there?” 

I can barely hear her, her normally robust voice reduced to a hoarse, quavering whisper. I know Catalina’s affected tones, the voices she uses when she’s trying to garner a specific response. This isn’t one of them. This — the _despair_ in her voice — it sounds alarmingly _real._

I take a breath. _Stay strong, Boy Wonder — don’t let her play you —_

“Yeah,” I say, schooling my tone. Raising the messenger for the BPD, I type as silently as possible so as not to alert her to what I’m doing. “What do you want, Catalina?” 

“I… I killed him, _cariño,”_ she whispers, her voice shaking. “I killed him.” 

The room goes stifling, still. The fan is forgotten in its hum-and-whir. My muscles go rigid, every nerve drawn up taut like harp strings. 

“Catalina,” I say, “what are you talking about? Who did you kill?” 

There’s a low whooshing sound, constant, like that of rushing water. I hear her teeth chatter. 

“Please help me,” she breathes. “I have to — I have to do this —” 

There’s the sound of a sob, then quiet. 

“Cat — Cat, stay on the line, talk to me — what do you have to do?” 

The whooshing continues, a rough rustling, the sound of wind in the receiver. 

“I have to kill myself,” she whispers. “I don’t deserve to live anymore. I killed him.” 

Just like that, the line goes dead, leaving me in the dark silence of my room, the phone heavy in my hand. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **NOTE: Dick did not release any other identities to Amy or to Gannon, only his own.**


	27. House of Horrors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo, all...
> 
> We're on the final sprint to the finish line... SO CLOSE. Just going to post as I finish as such, since there are only about three chapters left. :D Final countdown! <3
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Racial slurs, murder, talk of profiling, talk of abuse, etc.
> 
> Spanish to English at the end! <3
> 
> Happy reading... I think we all know what's coming... O_O
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo! ^_^
> 
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 27**

I enter the house, and close the door behind me. _Ay,_ I’m exhausted — what a day it has been. The system can take forever, _cariño,_ you know that? Ah, well. It seems as though everything is in place — enough so that I treated myself to a nice, long run by the river, followed by a stop at a coffee truck for an extravagant cappuccino. Who knows where I will be at the end of the night — it all depends on you now. 

Coming into the kitchen, I pause to see the lights are on. I’m sure I turned them off — and while I’ll allow I’ve been scattered, I’m not such a dingbat I’ve forgotten the concept of an energy bill. Again, compared to the amounts I _know_ other mob lords cough up, Blockbuster paid dick — pardon the expression — and Mateo is a penny-pinching doucheknob. I _always_ turn the lights off. 

Someone is in the house — I see, and hear, that the coffeemaker is going. 

It could be Mat, but he’s not immediately in sight, and something about this cozy lights and coffee set-up puts my hair on end. I go for the revolver in the hall — the one I keep in the bottom drawer of the hutch in case of break-ins or emergencies — on the occasion it’s not my brother who’s come to pay me a house call. 

“Mateo?” I call, checking the cylinder. Loaded. _Bien._

I’m relieved to hear his voice from the dining room. “I’m in here, _hermanita.”_

I exhale. _Dios mío,_ I have become paranoid. I push the revolver into the waistband of my leggings and figure I’ll put it away later. I head into the dining room, and see Mat sitting there, his tablet in front of him, along with a pile of papers in a manila envelope. 

“ _¿Qué tal, hermano?”_ I ask, and sit down. “Been a long day, huh?” 

“Where’ve you been, Cat?” he asks. 

I have a feeling as to where this is going — likely, he’s here to talk shop with me about my performance this morning. Given the hardness in his eyes and the clench of his jaw, he’s well past pissed off territory — earlier saw him merely angry, when he was fixing to rend you limb from limb and desecrate your dismembered, still dying body. You’re lucky that if you choose to be a good boy, I’m willing to bring the truth to light and take the fall for you, _querido._ No one wants to run afoul of Mateo Flores — _El Diablo_ himself. 

“ _¿Te quieres un café?”_ Mateo asks, abruptly standing, and vanishing into the kitchen before I can reply. 

“ _Ah, sí, por favor…?”_ I say into the empty air, and sit back. The metal of the weapon is still cold against my skin, misshapen and clunky. Ugh, I shouldn’t have bothered with the stupid thing. 

I’m about to pick through the folder, just out of curiosity, mostly, when Mateo returns. He thumps the coffee down in front of me with a clatter of china, and then sits down, eyeing me with that steely, scrutinizing gaze. 

I frown. Something is off. This isn’t how a concerned brother treats his sister after she’s just been put through the wringer by a batterer and murderer. And he was so kind earlier — just so nurturing and fraternal, his disposition tender and concerned. It was a demeanor I’ve not seen from him since the first terrible weeks after John. Certainly not this hard-edged, agitated, frosty mountain I see now — what’s changed? 

“So,” he tells me, and just like that, shoves the folder across the table to me. “You care to explain all this?” 

I eye him, and then open the folder. 

The first thing that greets me is a printed image of you. In your apartment, hovering over your coffee maker, waiting for your customary three cups to finish brewing. The date and time hover mockingly in the top corner of the image. November 3, 5:13am. It’s an image from one of my own cameras, planted in your former apartment. 

I quell the rising tide of alarm, and lift the sheet. 

Oh, Christ. Oh, _Dios mío._

Transcripts come to hand, dozens of them, all of them my own interactions with Desmond, Lynns, the Angel of Death — emails, direct messages, synced info from the burner phone. My search histories — even the ones I put through _proxies —_ are in this folder, too, damning in their details. Even my goddamn bujo is present, spelling out all of my checklists and agendas in painstaking detail — dedicated bullet journaling is necessary if you are going to become involved in this level of unlawful activity, as you and I both agreed (albeit as vigilantes, and not as… whatever you’d call this.) I had never intended a soul other than myself to see this particular datebook. 

“How did you get this?” I ask hotly, slamming the folder shut, and keeping my hand on it. My heart winds up and thunders in my chest, visibly vibrating my entire body. My hair feels all at once immensely heavy where its tail rivers down my back between my shoulderblades. 

“Does that matter?” he queries in turn, his tone equally heated. “The fact is, I got it — and Jesus, _hermanita,_ you’re not even trying to deny it or explain it away!” 

“Mateo —” I begin. 

“ _Don’t,”_ he snarls, lifting a hand. “Just — Jesus Christ, Catalina. What _is_ this? What have you _done?_ What are you _doing?”_

I sit up in my seat, squaring my shoulders and mulishly setting my jaw. I haven’t had a good argument or brawl in some time, and I hardly count this morning. I feel my spirit as it rises up against my sanctimonious, condescending, _Señor Perfecto_ _hermano mayor._ It’s easy for him to pass judgment — he’s never truly been hurt, truly been thrown to the wolves, truly been in love, truly done anything ultimately self-sacrificing for the care of another. And he’s never truly seen the system fail — fail at _his_ expense and that of a loved one. Jaime didn’t hit him nearly like it hit me. 

“Well, what does it look like?” I ask, gesticulating. “Working hard for the money, as the saying goes — seeing that justice is finally meted out for pieces of shit like Redhorn and Desmond and their disgusting goons. Making _your_ job as the DA a hell of a lot easier. Doing what your useless department of corrupt cops should be doing. You ought to be thanking me, _hermano!”_

He scoffs incredulously. “This —” He reaches over, and yanks the printed stills of you from the cameras out of the folder, scattering the sheets about on a damning display, the ones I still haven’t found a solid explanation for in spite of all my scrabbling. “ _This_ is not working hard for the money, Catalina. This is not meting out justice. This is — this is _felony stalking!_ I’m assuming Dick wasn’t aware of the fact that you spent months _spying_ on him! And my _God,_ not only this, which in and of itself is totally incomprehensible — but vigilante justice, mass murder, domestic terror, conspiracy? Falsely accusing a completely upstanding officer of not only battering you around, which frankly, Cat, I find insanely hard to believe from Richard Grayson, but of murders that _you_ committed?” 

I hold his gaze, my teeth gritted. I cross my arms over my chest. 

“Why don’t you believe he battered me around, _hermano?”_ I ask coldly. “I mean, wouldn’t you feel pretty awful if you turned out to be wrong…?” 

“Oh, come off it, Catalina. You don’t lie about a pregnancy to score a man and keep him around because you’re afraid of him and he’s a danger to you. That whole _concept_ is nothing but a giant contradiction!” He gestures madly. “Not to mention — Dick does not, by _any_ stretch, fit the profile of a violent guy!” 

I snort. Ha. If Mat only knew about your night life. You’ve a scrapper to your core, plenty violent — I take it that _mi hermano_ has never been graced with your spectacular temper on the job? 

“Well, this not violent guy threw me into a tree this morning,” I mention acidly. “And pretty _violently,_ I might add. Does anyone _ever_ fit a profile, Mat? You’ll be interested to learn Golden Boy’s got a temper you don’t know about —” 

“We’re not talking about this,” Mat snaps. “We’re just not, _hermanita._ He told me it wasn’t what it looked like. And you know what? After having all the shit in that envelope sent to me, I believe him!” He shakes his head. “You know — he has never lied to me before. Not once. And that’s been _confirmed,_ Catalina. But you have, haven’t you? You’ve been lying to me about pretty much _everything_ from the get-go — and here, I never even realized just how much you truly lied about until now!” 

Again, I snort. Once more, if Mat only knew how much you actually lie to him. You lie out of both sides of your teeth to him — up, down, left, right, center, day in and day out. And why do cops and attorneys always go to that place — that _We’re not talking about this_ crap? Why is that always a tactic they default to? 

“If you knew anything about Dick Grayson, you would know you’re being deceived and there’s a lot more to his story than he lets on,” I huff. 

“Frankly, I don’t believe you, and even if I did, it wouldn’t matter,” Mat says, waving a hand impatiently. “Because whatever he’s not letting on, it sure as hell isn’t this — stalking and killing and deceiving and getting into the pockets of dangerous crime lords. It’s not what _you’ve_ failed to let on to me for months! You’ve lost all right to say _anything_ at this point! And just what the _hell_ is your endgame, here, Cat? Are you pinning your crimes on him because you want to wreck him for rejecting you?” He shakes his head and huffs a breathless, humorless laugh. “Because I have to say — that’s _sick, mi hermanita._ It’s past sick.” 

“Oh, you have no idea what I’m trying to accomplish — _hermano,”_ I hiss, sneering. “And you wouldn’t understand, anyway.” 

“I’m not sure I _want_ to understand!” he exclaims. “And _qué chingados_ did you really think was going to happen here? You can’t believe _anything_ of what you said was going to hold water for long!” 

“Well, aren’t you the fucking DA?” I snap. “Don’t you decide which cases are tried? Surely you can work something out for me if it comes to that — I mean, you’re my goddamn brother, you’re my _blood,_ Mateo!” 

That _was,_ rather, the plan — except I didn’t want Mat to know about all of _this._ (Naturally, obviously, of course.) If you agreed to be with me, I had planned to rescind all of my accusations, and accept the consequences of falsely accusing you. I’d be facing slander, defamation of character, obstructing official business, all sorts of things in that case. Not to mention suspicion in the deaths of Blockbuster and Redhorn, since I _did_ have details about those murders not released to the public, but no forensics would tie me to those crimes… outside of the evidence on my PC. Which I had intended to destroy on the occasion they liked me for them, anyway. 

It was a good plan. Mat could tuck away those charges fairly comfortably, and I was sure he would for me. And then you and I could live our lives together, peacefully and without hindrance. I don’t mind a black mark or two on my record, and it’s not like it would be a huge issue in the long run. Your job would be secure, not to mention your trust fund — and from there, the time to start a family would come. So what would my record really matter? 

But somehow — the info contained on my PC was revealed to entirely the wrong person. Mateo, my own damn brother. The _worst_ party for this to be sent to. Who could have done this, and how? Could it have been you, _cariño?_ I feel it’s unlikely, considering I have it on good authority you’ve been in police custody all day since Fregley brought you in. And not only that, but my PC is _heavily_ armored against cyber penetration. Even the Stupendous Oracle would have a hard time busting into it, I’m sure. 

Although, I swear if _she_ did this, I will leave her in pieces by the end of this night. 

And now here I am, entirely dependent on my brother’s now wavering loyalty, just praying I can argue him around, convince him not to turn his back on his blood. 

Mateo, for his part, is staring at me. Scrutinizing, judging. Always so _patronizing._

“My blood — who _are_ you?” he asks finally in disbelief. “This isn’t the Catalina I know. This isn’t my sister. What the hell _happened_ to you? Christ — I don’t even _know_ you anymore, _hermanita!”_

Those words break something in me — they just snap something off and send it rolling away, never to return. And just like that, all control, all thinking, all rationality is gone — replaced by now by a shaking, streaming river of hurt, angry words. 

“Oh, please, Mat!” I shout. “Did you _ever_ know me? Did you ever bother to get to know me at _one_ time in our lives? Did you ever once think, ‘Oh, maybe I should _really_ check in with Catalina,’ rather than just rushing in and just fobbing all your own thoughts and beliefs off on everyone and everything? Did you ever consider that maybe you _didn’t_ actually know better? Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you’re perfect and you’re always right! _Señor Perfecto,_ never doing a single goddamn thing wrong, always got it together! Well, that doesn’t mean you have the right to just mow over everyone else and boss them around like you know everything —” 

“You act like everything’s been so easy for me,” he cuts me off sharply, again, shaking his head. “Did it never once occur to _you_ that in your never-ending crises I had to step up to the plate and be normal? That I had to hold Mom and Dad — hell, this whole _family_ together after Jaime died? Because _you_ went off and vanished all the time, partying and drinking and drugging and _Dios sabe qué más?_ Who the hell do you think paid for this house, the bills, who do you think put food on the table? And who do you think I did it for? Dad was sick by the time you were halfway through high school, Mom the same — they died within a year of each other and barely left us with anything! You try going to law school at your last-choice college and working your way through it busting twelve-hour shifts at a shitty gas station just to be called a lousy spic by the entitled motherfucker _gabachos_ who come through the back alleys of the Blüd every day! And for what? All so I could keep the goddamn house and life our parents risked everything and _worked_ for — and so _you_ could finish high school and then up and run off to the FBI Academy to go follow your American Dream like you hadn’t just fucked everything up only a few months before —” 

If I was losing my grip before, I’m incensed to the point of red-faced, hot-chested illogicality now, and I leap out of my seat, sending the chair tumbling away across the scuffed wooden floor. “Oh, you smug-ass bastard — you think I didn’t go through that same shit every day working at that disgusting chili dog stand and fighting my way into the fucking boys’ club that is the FBI Academy —” 

“I’m not talking about what you went through at the FBI Academy,” Mat seethes, also leaping out of his seat. “I’m talking about the fact you’ve overlooked everything I’ve done for you all throughout our lives — and _now_ you expect me to drop everything and risk myself to protect you? When you’ve been _killing_ people — innocent people, kids and families, not just drug lords and goons and corrupt cops, and by the _score_ — and stalking my friend, sabotaging him, trying to get rid of _more_ innocent people who stood between you, trying to ruin his life _framing_ him for all the horrible things you’ve done because he rejected you? I shudder to think how much of this shit he actually knows, how much of it factored into him throwing you into a tree! _El Jesucristo —_ how could you do this? To me, to all those innocents, to _him?_ To yourself, even? I don’t understand how anyone could ever _do_ that!” He gesticulates. “Are you completely _crazy?”_

“I’m your sister, Mateo!” I scream at my highest decibel, my voice shrill and grating in my throat. “ _Yo soy tu hermanita!_ You’re my blood! You don’t talk to me like this — you’re supposed to protect me, you’re supposed to have my back no matter what —” 

He shakes his head and lifts a hand. “I might have believed that this morning. But I don’t believe it now — you are _not_ my sister, Catalina. The fact is, I don’t know you at all. This person, who you are now?” He exhales, and again, shakes his head. “You are not my sister. I am not your brother. I do not know you. _No somos familia —_ not anymore.” 

Those words ring out through the otherwise silent dining room, falling on me like detonating bombs, overturning every last inch of my world. My shoulders slacken. My knees go lax. My head swims. 

“And I’m not going to protect you from here,” Mat continues. “I tried convincing you to get help — but obviously, you don’t _want_ help. I’ve done all I could do — I’m not doing anymore.” 

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t _need_ you, then, isn’t it, Mateo!” I bellow adolescently, tears streaking my face. “I can burn those papers, I can destroy my PC, I can accomplish everything I want to on my own —” 

“No, you can’t,” Mat says, his tone now sad, sympathetic, _pitying._ “You can’t, Catalina. This info was all sent to Amy Rohrbach, just as it was to me. They’re after _you,_ now. You don’t have any leverage over Dick anymore… and you’re not holding any more cards.” 

I feel my knees falter more, unable to speak as I gape terrified askance. 

“Everything I printed and put in that file, it was sent to Chief Rohrbach, as well as to me. It was sent to Rachel Dawes. The whistle was blown on you, Cat — and it blew the lid clear off this case. Dick’s been released — and now they’re going to come after _you._ It’s all hands on deck to bring you in — probably the only reason they’re not here yet is that they’re waiting on a search warrant for this place.” Mat inhales, and shakes his head. “And I’m not going to help you when they come. I’m not going to protect you. I’m not going to throw Dick to the wolves for you — and I’m not going to let you do this to him, accuse and defame him and ruin his life. I’m sorry, Catalina, but not this time. You’re going to _answer_ for what you’ve done.” 

It all happens before I can blink, or see, or register what it is that I’m doing. My arms move in swift, deliberate jerks, pulling up the hem of my shirt, swiping the revolver from the waistband of my leggings, shifting rapidly into a Weaver’s stance. My fingers move equally autonomously, the index squeezing even as I hear my brother scream my name before the bark of the shot echoes deafeningly throughout the room. 

Glass from the hutch shatters, a _pinging_ sound follows, then there’s a gruesome slide and thud atop the wooden floor. A pink mist evaporates in the air. My ears ring, my sight blurs. My hands buzz. 

And my brother, I know, lies on the floor, the sight of him obstructed by the dining room table. The hutch is ruined, the glass broken and spiderwebbed, a fragmented china plate scattered in bits across the shelf and spilling over the ledge within. Within my field of vision beyond the edge of the table, I see the spreading pool of red that reaches its way over the wooden floorboards, the gory spatter that paints the hutch, the flecks that denote brains, skull pieces. 

Everything grinds to a terrible, bone-shattering halt. 

Wavering, swimming upright in air, I make my tremulous way around the corner of the table, whispering Mateo’s name. 

Tears blur the sight of him as I stand before his sprawled body, its positioning indignant and awkward, his form flaccid and pliant. His tie flops over his shoulder, the light blue of his Oxford shirt is dotted with red. One arm leans haphazardly against the corner of the hutch, the other rests beside the leg of the chair he was seated in moments ago. His right leg is pretzeled, the other straight, the stiff material of his slacks drawn up to the ankle of his bent leg. 

There’s a grisly opening in his forehead, his dark hair floats in grimy tendrils in the pool of blood that reaches beneath him. One eye is closed. The other rolls backward. His mouth is half-open, his tongue slack at the corner of his lips. 

I hit my knees, hard. 

Mateo — 

Suddenly, with the report of a shouting bray in the resounding silence of the room, I hear his voice. 

_Look,_ hermanita — _bunnies! You see the_ conejos? _Seeing them on a run early in the morning like this is good luck —_

_You’ve got a shot at the Olympics_ and _the FBI — girl, you’re going places! I’m going to work extra hard for you —_

_No one can tell you how you should grieve, how long it should take, you stay in the house as long as you need, I’m always here,_ hermanita, _always —_

Joining his voice is the sound of a strangled, broken cry — my own. I huddle down, closing in on myself, my throat ripped with a torrent of harsh, shredding screams. 

I can’t be here — I can’t — I need to get away from the sight of my brother, dead in front of me — _dead by my own hand —_

What have I done — _what have I done —_

This can't be happening, it can't, it's not real — 

I spring to my feet and bolt out of the house through the back door, leaving it open. Unthinking, unknowing, unseeing, I sprint across the yard, to the neighborhood streets, finally to the woods. 

I don’t know where I’m going. I don’t know what I’m running toward. I don’t know what I’m going to do from here. All I know is I need to _escape_ the bloody, stifling room that holds my brother’s body, the home that all in a breath became an imprisoning hell — a place of wickedness and condemnation, of sin and reaching evil, of shame and guilt. A house of horrors. I race through the night, the cool air of late spring whispering around me, freezing the sweat that soaks my skin. 

I cross roads, tracks, bridges, barely processing anything of what I pass. Late-walking pedestrians glance alarmed at me as I whip past them, clearly distressed, spattered with my brother’s blood. I run until my throat and chest burn, my mouth tastes of pennies, my head pounds and vision wavers. My legs shake and fail to hold me upright anymore when I reach Byke Beach. I fall on my front just by the surf, the quiet lapping of the water muffled in my still-ringing ears, the sand damp and clinging against my face. 

I still hold the revolver, I realize with a jolt — its heft is still in my hand, grimed with sweat. The hem of my oversized sweatshirt sleeve obscures its handle, most of its cylinder. My cell is jammed into the front interior pocket of my sports leggings, its shape uncomfortably gouging my thigh. 

It’s now I begin to sob. 

I’ve lost everything. Everything is gone — _everything._

I don’t have anyone — 

Everything has been taken away from me. Everything I touch, I destroy. I’ve done this — 

Jaime. Viviana. Mom and Dad. John. My baby. And now, now Mateo. 

I am the common denominator. I’m a curse, a scourge, a poison, a calamity — 

I bellow my sobs into the sand, lost, floundering, free-falling, drowning. I rise to my knees, the revolver now resting on the sand beside me. I fumble with hands that convulsively shake to lift my phone from my leggings pocket, the fitted material tangling around it, the corners of the cell slipping in my quavering, sweaty hold. 

I look out over the water. I look down at the gun. I pick it up in my free hand. It rattles as my grip shivers. My teeth chatter. My face is numb. The night, already dark, is darker still through the veil of tears. 

I stand, kick the shoes away from my feet, and step into the surf. The water is cold — shockingly cold, even only up to my ankles like this. 

The black surface of the water, rippling under the charcoal sky, shifts — its whispers calling to me, their soft voice a gentle siren, beckoning me to enter its dark, icy depths. The gun is heavy and slick in my hand, the worn sleeve wrapping around my hand securing it in my weak grip. All of it absolution, penance, cleansing. 

There is no one now, there is nothing — you are all I have left, _querido,_ all I have — please just tell me I’ve not fully lost you, too — 

I look down at my phone. I pray you will answer me. I just need to hear your voice — 

Please, _cariño._

I thumb the screen, press the cell to my damp ear. I hold my breath, the tears streaking down my face. 

And then, I hear you. 

Your voice. 

“Catalina?” 

I exhale, and stare out across the water, holding tight to the phone, holding tight to the sound of your voice — the one thing that remains for me in this world. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carino: Honey, sweetie (m)  
> Bien: Good  
> Hermanita: Little sis  
> Dios mio: My God  
> Que tal, hermano?: What's up, bro?  
> Querido: Darling (m, romantic)  
> El Diablo: The Devil  
> Tu quieres un cafe: You want some coffee?  
> Ah, si, por favor?: Uh, yes, please?  
> Senor Perfecto hermano mayor: Mr. Perfect older brother  
> Que chingados: What the fuck  
> Dios sabe que mas: God knows what else  
> Gabachos: Americans (pejorative)  
> Yo soy tu hermanito: I am your little sister  
> No somos familia: We are not family  
> Conejos: Rabbits


	28. Nightshade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, y'all...
> 
> As promised, just dropping as I finish and edit! <3
> 
> TRIGGER: Talk of suicide.
> 
> Also, I'm so sorry.
> 
> Much love and happy reading! <3 ^_^
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo!

**CHAPTER 28**

I throw on the same running shoes from this morning, ignoring the fatigue in my body and pain in my knee, and rush out the door. I keep the phone pressed to my ear, on the line with dispatch. The phone call didn’t last long enough to get a definite ping on Catalina’s location. 

“I thought I heard water in the background,” I tell Anne, “so I’d say start with anywhere on the water — the river, the beach, wherever. I’m going to try Byke Beach first, moving east toward Skirl Rocks.” 

“Roger, Corporal Grayson,” Anne tells me, habitually formal. “Officers have been dispatched to Flores’ home, and we’ll send some units to Byke Beach, Skirl Rocks, Lanely Point — anywhere on the water, we’ll start combing it. Suspect is considered armed and extremely dangerous.” 

“Roger,” I say. “Also — can you send a unit out to do a wellness check on Mateo Flores?” 

“Can do,” Anne tells me. 

“Thanks, Anne. Touch base in about forty-five.” 

With that, I end the call, and help myself to one of Bruce’s many high-powered penis cars, not paying much attention to the details, just going for something I know to be fast. I can’t use the Zetas without blowing my cover past Amy and Gannon. Zooming away from the manor, I ring Bruce to bring him up to speed. 

Having been on alert and not, in fact, asleep in his room, he intercepted the transmissions between the BPD already, so bringing him up to speed is not only short, but largely unnecessary. 

“You _cannot_ confront her alone, Dick,” he says immediately. “It’s all too likely this is a snare — she _knows_ how to play you at this point. Don’t fall for it — wait for backup.” 

“Bruce,” I say, weaving through traffic, “I’m not doing this alone, I swear. I’ve got the BPD out looking for her as we speak _and_ I called you. Listen — I fully acknowledge this could be a lure or a trap or whatever, but my gut’s telling me it isn’t. And if my gut’s right — and usually, it is, you know, when I choose not to ignore it — someone’s dead and Catalina’s about to join them.” I flatten the accelerator. “I can’t let that go, and I can’t let that happen on the off-chance she’s telling the truth.” 

“Let the BPD handle it, Dick — I don’t need to belabor the point that this is with every goddamn likelihood a trap, as we just covered. You _need_ to sit this one out.” 

“Well, okay, fine, it’s probably a trap — but it’s not just that, Bruce, she’s dangerous to all those officers that are out looking for her right now.” I switch across four lanes to get off on the exit. “Thing is, I _might_ be able to handle this one without it coming to blows — and either way, if she’s telling the truth and she _is_ considering suicide, I can’t just sit back and let it happen.” Someone blares their horn at me, a gesture that strikes me as spectacularly unimportant in this moment. “In either case, she might talk to me, or at least _listen_ to me —” 

“Don’t be so naive,” Bruce admonishes me. “If you find her, I repeat — _don’t_ approach her alone. Did you suit up?” 

“No,” I answer, “and I think we both know why. You know how I’m approaching this one, and suicide threats are beyond time-sensitive emergencies that we _have_ to take seriously every time. Even when they _seem_ disingenuous — you know that. Those are _your_ words, Bruce.” 

“They are — but the circumstances are exceptionally extenuating here. I repeat. You need to sit this one out and let the BPD and the rest of us handle it.” 

“I _am_ the BPD,” I remind him as gently as I can, “and I may be the only officer on that force, or just the only person in general, that can get Catalina Flores to back away from the ledge or come quietly. There’s no guarantee, there, but Bruce, I _have_ to try. She’s dangerous — and if I can talk her down before she can hurt others or herself, I’ll do it.” 

There’s a pause. I can just _see_ his tightened lips, his slab jaw. 

“We’re right behind you,” he says. “Just don’t be stupid about this.” 

“Promise,” I tell him. 

I hang up on him and try raising Catalina, but it cuts straight to voicemail. Out of my mind with worry about Mat, I try him for what seems the nth time now, and same deal. I curse, finally slamming the phone into the passenger seat, and floor it the rest of the way to Blüdhaven. 

I just hope my instincts are right, that they’ve carried me to the right place. I leave the car in the crusty, chewed-up parking lot that spreads forgotten alongside the rambling, abandoned old park that I once chased Tarantula through, the location of that most fateful meeting, the one that prompted me to take her on as my protégé. God, if I could go back in time — 

I look around to see if Bruce might have pieced things together and Zeta’ed to Blüdhaven to scout this specific location as the Batman after pulling his customary gajillion rabbits out of his hat and arriving unfailingly at the proper conclusions. There doesn’t, however, seem to be a whiff of another human being anywhere nearby, just crickets and bugs and nocturnal critters skittering around heard but unseen in the woods. Granted, I'm not sure how Bruce or the others will be handling this, with Gannon present in the manor last I checked, and clued into only my nighttime exploits thus far. The manor, however, is a big place, easy to move about sub-rosa in. And even if Bruce dons the cowl without garnering our house guest's attention, Jason might opt to approach this in civvies as Gannon the Police Officer's "tagalong" of sorts (ha.) My partner has doubtless been called into action by our boss by now. 

Well, I can't worry about the minutia right this second. I let Anne with dispatch and Amy in on my location via phone call. I send Bruce a text to update him. Standing by the vehicle, I shut the door, ensure the Miata is locked, and hurry away, keeping my phone in hand. 

I make my way down to the beach, and start walking, my steps quick and quiet as cat’s paws. My heart drums, uptempo, but steady in my chest. It’s not the first time I’ve navigated such a dark stretch of wilderness, unpopulated by any nearby human being, heading straight into the gaping maw of a colossal risk. I’d have opted at least for a vest before flying to Blüdhaven, but with suicide threats, there’s really no time — and I was an hour to an hour and a half away as it was. (I made the drive in forty-four minutes. Regardless of everything Catalina has done, never mind that she needs to be found and brought to justice — I _can’t_ just sit on my hands and allow her to kill herself. Something about her broken, despairing voice, how _genuine_ she sounded, how utterly _desolate —_ it cooled the heat of my previous rage and incited me to realize that I don’t want Catalina, a woman I loved wholly and completely once, to die. And especially not like that. No matter what it is she’s done.) 

Somewhere far off, thunder rumbles, mixing with the sounds of the water and wind. Every nerve is on high alert, primed to the slightest stimuli, each sense honed to laser precision and awareness. 

Meaning I about leap out of my skin when my phone unexpectedly buzzes in my hand. Training and years of growing accustomed to being startled like this are the only things that _keep_ me from going through the stratosphere. 

It’s Barbara. 

“What is it, babe,” I murmur, not wanting to speak too loudly in case Catalina is nearby, not wanting to inadvertently alert her to my presence before I’m prepared to do so. 

“Dick,” Barbara says fervently, “listen to me, I know Bruce talked to you, but you _have_ to wait for backup before you confront Catalina if you’re not suited up or ready for it. You have _no_ idea how deep this thing with her actually goes —” 

“Barb, I know — I’m not confronting her alone,” I assure her. I make my way along an embankment lining the woods, its decline shambling into the strip of rocky, sandy beach. “The BPD has units out all over the city looking for her as we speak. But listen, if I find her first, I have to approach her like I don’t have backup coming — just to keep from scaring her into possibly doing something off the reservation, okay? But I promise I’ve kept everyone informed on my position and what my plans are, and I also plan on letting them know the second I find her.” 

“You shouldn’t even be out there looking for her — I don’t think you realize how _not_ indestructible you actually are or how dangerous she really is,” Babs says. “You should wait for Bruce, at least let him give you some armoring or protection beforehand —” 

“Shh,” I hiss, freezing in my tracks, hunkering down a bit. 

I creep along, low to the ground, coming to the edge of the embankment. I confirm with an amped rush of caution and adrenaline what I’m looking at. It’s Catalina, standing in the surf, her back to me. Her hair is tied loosely in a ponytail, whipping in ebony tendrils in the wind, just visible against the dark gray of the sky. The loose material of her sweatshirt billows around her slight form. 

“Too late for that — I see her,” I whisper. “She’s on Byke Beach by an embankment next to the woods. We’re maybe two miles west of Skirl Rocks — can you track my position?” 

“Yes,” Barbara says, also hushed. A second later, she continues, “Okay, it’s been pinned, sending to Bruce, Tim, Jason, Gannon… all the BPD dispatched units… Looks like the one closest to you is squad car three-eight-two, about eight miles off from you near the abandoned preserve.” 

“Turpin and James, good,” I murmur, stepping slowly down the decline to make my way onto the beach. 

“Stay on the line, Dick,” Barbara says. “Don’t move until I confirm your exact position’s been received.” 

I’m too close now to say anything without tipping Catalina off that I’m here. I just wait, standing at the base of the embankment, keeping Cat in my sights. I don’t move, I don’t speak, I barely even breathe. My heart is pounding so hard that it’s a wonder she doesn’t hear it. 

“Position’s received — they’re all en route, and the rest of the units have been alerted,” Babs murmurs into my ear. “Gannon and Jason are closest by on foot near the Skirl Rocks. They’ll be there in a few minutes. Bruce is on the opposite side of Byke Beach, heading your way now. Roughly the same ETA.” 

I lower the phone, and without ending the call, send a text to Barbara’s PC: _Tell them to approach quietly and assess before moving._

“Got it, babe,” she says. “Keep me on the phone.” 

I don’t answer, lowering the cell again without ending the call, now just taking a handful of cautious steps toward Cat. In my old high school tee and running shorts, approaching Catalina like this, I feel exposed — naked, even. But I have to move, and now. 

She’s up to her shins in the water, visibly shivering. The water is cold, but the night is warm — likely, she’s shivering from shock. 

_I killed him —_

I take a breath, and just _pray_ there’s been some mistake somewhere, some misunderstanding. But I have a _bad_ feeling about this one. 

Her arms are crossed over chest, so I can’t immediately tell if she’s armed. I move closer, maybe ten steps from her now, and stop. I won’t come closer — even if I can’t see a weapon right off doesn’t mean she’s not carrying one. 

“Catalina?” I murmur carefully. 

She looks over her shoulder at me, but doesn’t turn all the way. Her shoulders loosen. She looks back out over the water. She covers her face with one hand. 

“…You’re here,” she says after a time, her voice hollow, haunted. “You came.” 

There’s a pause as I read her body language. Heavy, weighted, burdened. She shakes harder still, the tremors visible even in the darkness. I hear her teeth chattering. 

“Yeah,” I say finally, keeping my voice gentle. “I came.” I give it a second, then probe. “Why did you call me, Cat?” 

She shakes her head. “I just… wanted to hear your voice, _cariño._ One more time.” 

“What do you mean?” 

She turns a little, angling slightly, still not facing me. Her posture is defeated, broken. “Don’t you see, _mi amor?_ Can’t you get it? Don’t you understand?” She shakes her head. “There’s… there’s nothing for me, now. Nothing. Everything’s fallen apart — there’s nothing _left_ — I don’t have anything, I don’t have anyone, and I — I don’t _deserve_ —” Her voice hitches. “I destroy everything I touch —” Her shoulders tighten. “I should just — I should just walk out there, swim until I can’t swim anymore, until I go under and don’t come up — I should have done it a long time ago. But… I didn’t, and now look what I’ve done… There’s no _hope_ for me anymore, _querido._ I’m too far gone. I’m just too far gone, now.” She turns away, lowering her face, again covering it with one hand. I hear her sob, the sound strangled, heartrent. 

“Catalina,” I murmur, taking one slow, wary step toward her, “no one’s too far gone. You wouldn’t have called me if you believed that. Why don’t you… come out of the water? Come on. Before you freeze.” 

“Do you care if I do?” she asks sadly. 

“Of course I care,” I say. 

“You want me to come to you so you can put me in jail,” she sighs, not angrily, not accusingly. She just sounds so overwhelmingly _sad._ “That’s why you’re here.” 

I soften, my heart sinking, sorrow coming up to meet it, resting beside the anger and hurt within. I see it now, so clearly — everything this woman did, it was out of a sheer, clawing desperation, from a place of deluded, misplaced need for something to fill her boundless empty spaces. Like Barbara said, I represented something to her, something intangible and unreachable, something she wanted so badly in her unending heartache, something she would stop at _nothing_ to have and keep. But it was something I just couldn’t give her — and still can’t give her. The anger I feel, the betrayal, they will never leave me — but now, I know the sorrow won’t, either. 

And the regret I feel. The remorse. 

When I failed Catalina, I failed her _so completely_ that my faltering has reached every inch of our existence, seeping into every crack, filling every cranny. And hundreds, _thousands_ of others have felt it, this series of quakes and aftershocks that wrack everything around us in the wake of my fall. All the blood is on my hands every bit as much as it’s on hers. 

And I can’t let it end this way. I won’t fall on my face one more time. I won’t let one more person die. 

I inhale, and anchor myself. 

Whatever happened to bring her here, it’ll be confronted — but right now, in _this_ moment, I need to focus on what’s right in front of me. 

I need to talk Catalina away from the ledge she’s on — in a way that goes beyond merely running after her and pulling her out of the water if she races despairing into the waves. And then — I need to bring her in. No spite now. Just a sort of intrinsic compassion, an acknowledgement of sorts. And what needs to be done. Step one. Step two. 

And as of now, I’m racing the clock. The BPD is alerted to our position. Bruce, Jason, and Gannon are on their way. If any of them come before I can talk her down, if she’s alerted to them coming, I don’t know how this will end. I’m walking on blown glass. Playing with explosives. Dancing in lightning. 

“I just want you to come to me so we can talk,” I say gently. “I’m not here just as a cop right now, Cat. Come out of the water. Come talk to me.” 

There’s a long, long pause. 

Then, finally, she looks over her shoulder at me, and shakes her head. “…Do you know how much I loved you, Dick? I mean… do you really know how much?” She glances at the ground, then looks back out at the horizon across the water. “I’d have done _anything_ for you, _cariño._ You were… you were all I lived for.” 

There’s another pause, the wind breathing around us. 

“Why are you talking in the past tense, Catalina?” I ask. 

“Because… because it’s over. Isn’t it.” She says this as a statement, not as a question. “All of it. Everything.” 

“Catalina… come on,” I try again. “Step out of the water. Let’s talk.” 

She turns to me, nearly facing me now, her arms still crossed. The expression on her face momentarily fences my breath in my chest. The phone in my hand grows cumbersome. In all my years as Robin, Nightwing, an officer with the BPD — I’ve never seen a face so hopeless, so empty, so _finished._ I take a slow, cautious half-step toward her, needing to get her onto the beach more than ever now. This level of bleakness is universes past dangerous — it’s unpredictable, detonative. One wrong move, and I may blow the fuse with God only knows what consequences. 

I remain overtly calm, even if internally every single cell is primed down to the atoms, gazing at her in the unending moments that pass, waiting for her, inviting her to speak. 

“…I’ll never have you, will I,” she murmurs at last, her voice, again, so overwhelmingly _sad._

I just stand, and hold her gaze, not speaking. The wind sighs, mournfully voicing the sorrow all over Catalina’s disconsolate face. 

There’s no response I can give her. Not one that will fail to chase her into the water, nor one that will invite her onto the beach. 

The silence between us reaches to an expanse that grows into a gulf now, the rift of quiet screaming more truth than my own words could speak with a resonating finality. 

… _No._

… _Never._

… _No._

Comprehension enters Catalina’s eyes, those dark, deep, beautiful eyes that I hung on and lost myself in for months, the eyes that haunt my never-ending nightmares. 

And in the brief second that it does, that it filters into her awareness — her face goes from despairing to incendiary, her eyes blazing in the darkness. Bestial, demonic — completely unrecognizable, her face no longer hers. 

Her next words echo — carried on, amplified by the crying wind. 

“ _Then neither will anyone else —”_

Then, before I can even blink or inhale, the world opens up in a bright and deafening flash. 


	29. Atropa Belladonna (2)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everybody!
> 
> Two updates in two days, sorry, guys, I know it's a lot. <3 Not dropping to make you feel obligated to read immediately, just as I finish them up as we come upon the finale. :-) One chapter remains!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING: Suicide/intended suicide, gun violence... yikes.
> 
> Might be a little unexpected, what's inbound. I hope y'all like the turn this took! <3
> 
> Spanish to English at the end!
> 
> Much love and xoxoxoxoxoxo! <3 ^_^
> 
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 29**

Oh, no. Oh, no, _mi amor,_ no — 

The gun falls out of my hand the second my feet leave the water, rushing to where you lie prone on the beach, the sand already darkening with the outflow of blood that spreads beneath you. Disconnected spiritually from my body, I hadn’t even comprehended what it was that I was doing, my motions seeming automated, performed by someone else — reflexive, banal, responsive. It happened when I shot Mat — and it happened again just now. 

It wasn’t what I intended to do — it was knee-jerk, involuntary, dissociative — I _swear_ I didn’t mean to, I never meant for this — 

Oh, _cariño,_ no, no, no — this isn’t what I wanted, it’s not what I want — 

I fall to my knees by you, barking loud, rending sobs now, full of panic and dread and self-loathing, my heart pounding fitfully at my ulula. My arms are weak and my legs are numb. I struggle to see you through the blur of tears, trying to convince myself it’s not as bad as I think it is — 

But it is. Oh, God, it is. It’s _worse —_

Your chest is drawn into a tense plank under your shirt, jerking now and then with your increasingly desperate efforts to breathe, your neck straining and pulsing as you fight for air. You gag on the blood in your throat, a big, dark plume of it bursting over your lips and chin, welling between your teeth. The light blue of your Gotham Academy tee shirt, the one that’s gotten a hair too small for you now you’re into your adulthood, has gone black in the diffuse half-light of the overcast night sky, the cotton soaking through with the blood that gushes from the wounds the revolver put in your chest. 

Four of them. Close together. Delivered rapidfire, all of them coming so fast you hadn’t even fallen before the last one struck the mark — so fast I hadn’t even realized what I’d done before you lost your footing under the blows, landing finally on your back. 

I lay a hand against your face, your skin slick with sweat and blood, turning your gaze to me. You’re in shock, your flesh drained, your lips bloodless, your entire body wracked with chills. That you are still conscious at all is something of a strange miracle, an aberration of the natural order, likely a byproduct of the intense, subversive training you were put through as Robin, as Nightwing. 

“Oh, God, _cariño,”_ I breathe through the tears, “I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean this, I never meant for any of this, please believe me —” I brush your hair away from your perspiring forehead. “ _Lo siento, mi amor,_ I’m so, so sorry —” 

You lift an arm, gasping, choking, gurgling. You try to speak, and fail, your words lost in the bubbles of gore that plug your throat. 

People think falsely rendered gun violence in film and television is gruesome and discomfiting — something to feel humbled by, something to look away from. Or conversely, they find an odd, perverse _appeal_ about it — a fascination with the glamourized macabre that takes their breath away and arrests their enchantment. But that’s because neither side has any idea what getting shot actually _looks_ like in real life — they have no idea that the movies make it so much prettier than it actually is. Because there’s no way to truly encapsulate the _real_ horror of it. 

I press my hands to your chest, holding them there, stemming the blood I myself undammed. I feel the ripples and twists in your ribcage as you battle fruitlessly for breath, the sound of your struggling respiration the stuff of the most awful nightmares. My hands are drenched in seconds, looking as though I’ve plunged them to the wrists in maroon dye. Your skin is so blanched, so _pale,_ it has almost the eerie quality of bioluminescence, the smears of blood painting it in dark, matte blots, your chin and mouth daubed like a zombie’s. Your clothes are tacked to your sweating form, your bladder has gone, tears pour over your bleached cheeks and temples. Your hair is wet and tangled, a snarled, dripping mop. 

I don’t think I hit your heart, I realize, looking down at you, frantically assessing the wounds to your chest, the ones I put there, the ones I never meant to put there. If I had struck your heart, you’d have been dead by now. But as it stands, I know I hit a lung, probably both. You’re well on your way to dying — 

You look up at me, so many _questions_ in your eyes, still so beautiful. And all at once, I’m overpowered by a terrible image of John. I sink and huddle, seeing _him_ now and not you, witnessing the atomizing sight of him as he lay gasping and bleeding to death beside me all over again. It crushes me beneath its weight, closing off the breath in my chest, stopping my heart. I sob harder still. 

When you cough wetly, the sound a whispy, wheezing sputter, I come back to myself with a jolt. 

No. No, no, no — this is not going to happen again. _Never_ again. I won’t _let_ this happen. I couldn’t save John. But I can still save you — 

My phone sits heavy in the front interior pouch of my track leggings, where I’d returned it after you took my call. I yank it from the snares of fabric, moving hastily, my fingers oily with your blood, smudging red tracks all over the screen of my cell. 

I dial 911. 

Then, waiting for the dispatcher, I gently nudge you somewhat to your side. You don’t fight me. Your weight is going heavier by the second, your limbs loosening and deadening. Oh, please, _cariño,_ hold on, only a little longer — 

I exhale in a brief moment of relief when your airway somewhat clears, although your breathing still isn’t coming as it should, hampered likely by all sorts of awful things like collapsed lungs and hemothoraces. Things I’m not equipped to treat here on my own, stranded on this unpopulated, godforsaken stretch of beach. The dispatcher answers my call. 

“I need units sent to Byke Beach, a few miles west of Skirl Rocks,” I say in a shockingly steady voice. “There’s been a shooting.” Even as the dispatcher launches into a series of questions, I continue, cutting her off. “Please hurry.” 

I lower the phone After a moment, I end the call. I close my eyes, and take a breath. There will only be one ending for me now. 

But first, I have to ensure that you’ll be safe. I have to. 

I don’t want this, _mi querido._ I swear to you, this was _never_ what I wanted. I never meant for this. 

I don’t want to see you hurt, see you fighting for your life even as you lose that battle. I don’t want to see you suffer like this, die like this. I don’t want to see you clawing at the last moments of your life, struggling to hold onto them, drowning in pain and fear, finally slipping under the surface scared and full of regret. 

I know what it is that I want for you — how could I have failed to _see_ it before? How did I not _understand_ it? 

I sob. Oh, God. What have I done — how could I have done this — and how could I have lost sight of what it is that I have truly, truly _wanted_ for you? 

I want you to be happy, Dick. I want you to be fulfilled. I want you to laugh that infectious laugh, smile that everlasting, beautiful smile, extend that tireless helping hand. I want you to love with all your heart, your heart bigger than this entire planet. I want you to _be_ loved, worshipped, cared for. I want you to be _you._ But most important of all… Richard Grayson, I want you to _live._

Even if I can’t see it, even if I can’t be a part of it, I want you to live for many, many years to come. I want you to go peacefully when it’s your time, an old, contented man meeting the Reaper as a welcome friend after a lengthy, satisfying life. 

I wish that I could share in your life, your reaching existence, the one that’s touched and meant so much to so many. Myself included. But I _can’t_ share in it now — and I know that. But… _mi amor,_ I will accept that fate, that trade, if it means you will _live._ And as always, I am willing to do the hardest things, go to the darkest places, face the worst tortures for you. 

I know I told you once I would die for you, _cariño,_ as we raced across the roofs, partners in arms, friends and confidants, mentor and protégé. And I meant it. 

I withdraw for one moment, long enough to reach for and pick up my gun, and then I return to you. I bend down, stroke your hair, kiss your forehead. I hold you one last time, whisper to you, tell you I’m sorry, tell you I love you, tell you help is coming. You are losing consciousness in my arms, your fighting spirit ebbing with your lifeblood. Why are emergency services _taking_ so long? 

“ _You get the hell away from him, you goddamn bitch —”_

I inhale at the sound of Jason’s voice. I prepare myself. I stand, slowly, deliberately. 

It’s not EMS, but I’ll take it. 

Jason and Gannon both sprint toward us. Your partner produces his weapon, decelerating, aiming at me. Your brother slows to an outright halt, and he surprises me when, standing behind Gannon, he produces his own unexpected weapon — the barrel of the handgun trained on my head. 

Well, first come, first served, I guess. 

It’s now I leave you. 

_Vive, mi amor._

I face your partner. Your brother. Their weapons. 

“Catalina — step away from him — do it now!” Gannon bellows at me, gesturing with his gun, coming slowly toward us. 

I don’t. 

I take one final breath. 

Then, seeing the faces now of my sweet Jaime, my silly Viviana, my beloved John, my treasured baby, my hard-working parents, my long-suffering, selfless Mateo — whom I have so much to thank for, so much to say I’m sorry for — I lift my own weapon. I extend it toward Jason and Gannon. Leveling it on them. Aiming it at them. 

I exhale. 

I wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mi amor: My love  
> Carino: Sweetheart  
> Lo siento, mi amor: I'm sorry, my love  
> Mi querido: My darling  
> Vive, mi amor: Live, my love


	30. Atropa Belladonna (Finale)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI, Y'ALL...
> 
> IT IS THE FINAL CHAPTERRRRRR.
> 
> Sorry for the delay on it. I thought I'd be able to get it finished and posted last weekend, but I ended up so busy it just didn't happen... XD XD
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking this story out with me... it's been a challenge and a wild, wild ride. I just hope you enjoyed reading it every bit as much as I enjoyed writing it! <3
> 
> Happy reading and much love... and once again, thank you all SO MUCH for the love and support throughout the course of this story. <3
> 
> Xoxoxoxoxoxoxo! <3 ^_^
> 
> ~EF <3

**CHAPTER 30**

I think a part of me knew it would come to this. That it would end this way. 

Maybe it’s at least somewhat why I ran off after Catalina alone, regardless of the danger I knew she presented. That way only I wound up blown off the map — a fair trade. Better me than any others. My family. My friends. The officers I work with every day. 

It’s taken me a second up to now to realize what happened — one second, I was trying to talk Catalina onto the beach, and the next, it was like someone set off a cherry bomb in my face and the whole world turned into a careening, nauseating Ferris Wheel. And now here I lie on my back, utterly disoriented, all the wind knocked straight out of me, my vision whirling. 

_She_ shot _me,_ I realize stupidly, and then I think, _Well, there’s a visit from the fail whale,_ and then I have the most absurd urge to start laughing hysterically. I can’t help it, really — it just seems so ridiculous and so obvious at the same time. I saw it coming, didn’t I? And yet I _still_ wound up in this pickle — what a moron — 

The giggles fail before they can begin, blocked by the blood pulsing at my throat and rising into my mouth, bubbling at my teeth. It runnels down the wrong pipe when I inhale, and I sputter, sending a spray of it all over my chin. 

Looking up at the sky, it’s already blurring, fading, diffusing at the edges. My arms are prickling into unfeeling weights at my sides, sinking through the ground beneath me, even as my back remains flat and braced atop the sand. Every beat of my slowing heart grows more distant as the thrumming whine in my ears becomes louder, drowning out all sound, as though I’ve been plunged into deep, deep water. I’m aware of my chest leaping, that I’m fighting to breathe in spite of the permeating lack of feeling that’s overtaken my body — but I can sense that I’m _not_ breathing for all my efforts. Even as I inhale, I fail to take in air. 

Somehow, it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t scare me. It doesn’t alarm me. It just doesn’t mean much in this moment. 

Catalina rushes up to me, kneeling beside me, laying a hand on my face, turning my gaze to her. As I look up into the endless night in her beautiful eyes, peering into their depths through the blur of tears and rising darkness, I wonder how it came to this, how we fell so far, how _this_ could be our ending. 

I loved her once. I would have moved more than just mountains for her — I’d have moved worlds, planets, universes. She was my partner. My protégé. My friend. My lover. 

And now she leans over me, her hands pressed to the bullet wounds that she herself put in my chest, this woman who loved me, who supported me, who understood me — the same woman I cherished in turn, opened myself up for, trusted implicitly, and made love to, above board with no qualms. She holds me with the same hands that harmed me, her touch like seeds of nightshade. 

_Nightshade, atropa belladonna,_ I think muzzily as she turns me to my side, somewhat clearing my airway, _a plant that can cure, seduce, or kill…_

Catalina did all three. 

She blossomed like a flower in the middle of my colorless life, vibrant against the gray scale of my exhausted existence, her fragrance and hue beckoning me to her with tantalizing petals. Her leaves cured my pervasive, aching hurts, salving them and calming them, gentling the pain that was so deep-rooted I had become deadened to it until she came with her sweet, soft relief. Her blooms lured me to her, enfolded me in her essence, holding me to her bosom in a tender, satisfying prison, fusing us in a bittersweet union. And finally, the fruit she bore poisoned me — her toxin spreading through me like a virulent contagion, the deadly nightshade imbuing my heart and draining the life from it. 

And I, a fool to the end, _accepted_ the fruit extended to me — blinded by its beauty and promise. 

I guess I can see how this came to be. And I _am_ a fool — just an utter, utter fool. 

Catalina is speaking to me, although I can’t make out anything of what she’s saying. I close my eyes, drifting, descending, darkening. I’m not sure where I’m going. But wherever it is, it’s quiet, it’s tranquil… and it’s _easy._ God, it’s so easy. 

A part of me wonders if I’ll come back from the place that’s drawing me to it like a soft, alleviating embrace, if I’ll see my loved ones again. If I’ll open my eyes, find myself the same Richard Grayson on the other side. If Barbara will be sitting by me, ready to remonstrate at me in her customary, beloved way for scaring her by getting hurt like this. 

The other part of me wonders if this is it. If this is the end of the line for me, the final page. 

_That’s all there is, there isn’t any more._

The gentle, loving hold around me enfolds me closer still, and now I find I sense a presence, an expectation. It’s incorporeal, but not unwelcome — and with an influx of new comprehension, I wait to feel my mother’s arms in the embrace that surrounds my dwindling awareness, to smell her familiar perfume, feel the soft blanket of thick hair across her shoulder under my cheek. I can almost hear her, murmuring to me, whispering from somewhere beyond the darkness, words I can’t quite discern — but that comfort me all the same. 

I don’t know what awaits me — I can’t say with any certainty what’s coming next. If I’ll fall into the place from which my mother’s voice seems to beckon, if I’ll come back out of this place of transcendent serenity to again know all the joys and horrors of living. All I know is right now, I’m tired — _I’m just so tired_ — and this, whatever this is, death, release, what have you… it’s so much easier even than falling into a peaceful, needed sleep. 

_Dickie — Dickie, it’s okay, we’re here, come on, stay with us —_

Gannon’s voice and Jason’s hand brutally smacking my face refocuses the world beyond the peaceful veil of darkness, blasting the curtain away as though it’s a puff of smoke. It’s like the abrupt twist of a knob turning ignored static into a sudden and cacophonous boom of comprehensible sound. It thrusts _awareness_ back into me, yanks me out of the depths I sank peacefully into only a moment ago, drops me jarringly back into the here-and-now. A spear of adrenaline lances through me, amping my weakening respiration, kickstarting my heart, at once dispelling the numbness in my body. 

_It’s not gonna end this way, you’re not just gonna up and leave us like this,_ wake the fuck up — 

Jason’s harsh, barking words shoot my eyes open. Cruelly shoved all the way back into real time now, instinct takes over and I jaw fruitlessly at the air, seeking oxygen that just won’t come, my efforts fraught with mounting desperation. Pain sets in, hot and condensed and stupefying, blistering stars of knotted, squeezing agony in my chest. Tears and blood flow double time, mingling with the sweat on my skin. I’m _freezing_ — shivering tectonically, the shakes wracking my spine and compressing my suffocated chest. 

“Dick, come on, _breathe —”_ Jason’s saying, tearing at my shirt, peeling its bloody, sticky mass away from my skin. 

_I’m trying —_

I make an effort to say this, but the words don’t articulate themselves, lost in an unseemly gag and sputter. I can vaguely hear Gannon’s clipped voice, apparently speaking tersely into his radio, something about EMS and units. 

I don’t know what’s happened to Catalina. I didn’t see what occurred to remove her from this gruesome scene, her presence replaced by my brother and partner. Is she in cuffs somewhere? Was she taken away? Did she run off, allowed to flee? Or… is it worse? 

I wonder where my phone’s gotten off to, what’s transpiring on Barbara’s end, what Bruce is doing, why the hell he’s not here yet. I have this silly, childish notion as I strive in vain to breathe, quaking convulsively, sweating, and freezing, that he’ll fix this — that he’ll show up and know just what to do. As he always does, even if I’ve not given him enough credit prior to this — 

I choke on a sob, an awful, smothered sound. My lungs are full and stopped, the air stopping at my fluid-choked throat, the strength and feeling depleting from my phalanges by the second, all of it ebbing with the blood that gushes from my chest. My vision is going, the colors blending and smoking at the edges. 

“Dickie, EMS is coming, just hang in there —” Gannon’s saying, and I register that at some point he’s pulled me across his lap, supporting my weight in a semi-reclining position, my head against his shoulder. Jason shuffles the chain with my parents’ rings out of the way, and presses a mound of my ripped shirt against my gushing chest. One of Gannon's hands rests on my perspiring forehead, the other grips my fingers. My skull feels as though it’s about to balloon and burst under Gannon’s palm. Every beat of my heart falters, its rhythm decelerating, each thump weaker and farther between. 

“Gan — I can’t — breathe —” I manage, and gag even more loudly, losing more blood in a popping bubble that bursts over my lips. I gnash like a stranded fish, overcome in flagrant defiance of all my training and experience by an abrupt and entirely unaccustomed wash of fear and dismay. I’m drowning on dry land, and it doesn’t matter one bit how hard I fight, I’m slipping, I’m losing my foothold and grip — 

“Dickie, you gotta calm down,” Jason says, his voice unwontedly gentle. He takes my other hand, keeping the remains of my shirt pressed to my bleeding wounds with his free. “You’ve got two lungs full of blood, there’s not much we can do before EMS gets here, and the more you panic like this, the harder you work and the faster you suffocate and bleed out. Slow down.” 

I listen, and I make a Herculean effort to calm myself, reassured by his words and voice, by Gannon’s solid form to my back. But there’s not much I can do to quell the intrinsic, growing need for air, and my body’s amping efforts to take it in, all of them involuntary and heightening by the moment. And the increasingly desperate respiration burns me out in a matter of seconds. I’m weakening — fast — and there’s not a lot I seem able to do, even though I try with all my might. 

“Get ’em in as deep as you can, Big Bird,” Jason says. “Feel Gannon’s breathing and follow him — and on that note, Gan, you gotta calm the fuck down, too. Deep breaths, in and out.” 

I just sink into Gannon’s lap when they start bickering, Gannon insisting he _is_ calm, Jason claiming he’s the antithesis of calm. Their voices fade as my limbs go heavy and tingly, all of them falling asleep. The pain is quieting, at least, receding into the horizon of my consciousness, soon to be silent and forgotten. My sight darkens further, narrowing the world into a far-off pin-prick. My ears hum with the low, singing resonance of an enormous chime. 

“Dick —” Jason hisses, “ _Dick,_ stay with us, eyes on me — _DICK —”_

The increased, bellowing volume recenters my focus on my brother for the briefest second, but even as I make an effort to _stay_ in this moment, my grasp is slick and slides away. 

“Dick, _come on,_ just look at Jason, keep your eyes on him —” Gannon cries, “ _fuck,_ Jay — I think we’re losing him —” 

Just like that, Gannon’s words fail as he sobs — loudly. He dissolves into tears, weeping with strangled noises, each sound a punch to my bullet-riddled chest. I’ve seen Gan in emotional moments, caught him on the tail end of tears and breakdowns — but I’ve never actually seen or even heard him _cry._

It’s terrible, hearing him like this, even if I can’t see him, and not being able to do a goddamn thing about it except feel myself as I slip farther and farther away. I want to reach out to Gannon, calm him down, reassure him it will be fine, even if I’m not sure of that myself. But all the lines between my brain and body have been severed, none of them conducting signals, not a single one open for communication. Gannon just sobs, the sound muffled and dim, the feeling of his hand stroking my hair and his other gripping my loose fingers no longer enough to keep me here. 

I just can’t hold on. 

Jason bellows at Gannon that no, I’m not going anywhere, that he needs to calm down — 

More sounds, each of them losing their edges, going flimsy and worn, incomprehensible. There’s a sense of calling, beckoning — voices I can’t make out, but _feel,_ luring me away from this awful beach, back to the place of quiet and tranquility. 

And then Bruce’s voice silences everything, ringing into my ears like a clear, singing bell. 

_Dick. Stay with us, now._

_It’s not going to end this way._

_You’re not going to leave us like this._

_Barbara has been on the other end of your phone this whole time, and she’s not going to hear you die._

At the mention of her name, I hold as I hard as I can to the sound of his voice, even as it thins into a hypnagogic, dream-like murmur, even as my grip gets slippier and weaker. 

Then, new voices. EMS. 

More hands. 

And then, just like that, my grip releases itself, and down the rabbit hole I go — swirling down so far, so fast, I can’t even reach for an anchor. 

xxxxx 

_Three Months Later_

This stretch of beach, the last place I saw her, the same patch of sand I almost died on (actually _did_ technically die on, for two minutes anyway, before the paramedics could revive me), is the last place I thought I’d feel compelled to visit, but here I am. 

Barbara is back at the abandoned, weed-choked lot, waiting for me in the car. She knows I need space for this strange mission of sorts I’ve set out on, as always sensitive, patient, and mindful, just as she’s been since the beginning of this entire saga (and just the beginning.) It can’t be any easier for her than it is for me to come to this place, but she accompanied me, all the same. As I look out across the water, I’m comforted in knowing she’s nearby. 

I set down the bag I carry, and then sit beside it, drawing my knees up and bracketing them with my arms. I lace my fingers together, and just gaze out at the watercolor violets, oranges, and pinks of the evening sky over the ocean. The wind whispers around me, its voice soft and quiescent, so reminiscent of that night. 

I take a breath, slowly, allowing the air to inflate my lungs within my ribs. The scent of the air is the same as it always is when it blows off the water, crisp and briny, this token of familiarity something of an anchor. My chest is still tight and rattly at times, prone to all sorts of issues like chronic bronchitis and pneumonia and upper respiratory infections, and I’ve still not recovered my previous tolerance for exercise. It will come in time, however, Dr. Skagle’s assured me, and it _has_ come a long way in a relatively short duration already. And for the first time in my life, I don’t intend to hurry the process. There’s a lot more healing to be done than just the physical, after all. And that sort of healing moves in its own time, operates on its own schedule, exists on its own plane. 

It’s been months of feeling torn between relief and sorrow, knowing that Catalina is gone. Pinballing between the two, experiencing both simultaneously, a syzygy of appeasement and grief. 

The reaching heartbreak I felt, and still feel, to learn that she had died astounded me, considering everything she did, how much death and destruction and pain she caused — but it was there, all the same, gripping my heart in an iron fist, wringing blood from it like water from a sponge. And it remains, just as rooted in my heart now as it was when I came to at RABE, and Jason confessed to me that he pulled the trigger the second she lifted her own weapon over my bleeding, motionless body, pointing it at him — and at Gannon. 

Jason’s not in lasting trouble for it. It was, according to responding officers, a clear-cut case of self-defense, even with Gannon providing him something akin to protection. Bruce kept the whole thing quiet and out of the media. 

I let go a sigh. Of everyone around me, I’m the only one who knew the Catalina that I did. The Catalina who tirelessly listened to every gripe and complaint I had and offered up her inexhaustible love and support, the one who massaged my aching muscles and nurtured my abused body into by far its healthiest state, the one who joined me in dancing like loons to Oingo Boingo, laughing heartily at these antics but never judging. Not one other truly saw _that_ Catalina, witnessed or enjoyed that version of her. Save her family, and her friend who died. And I know, on some level, in some way, I’ll _always_ mourn the loss of that Catalina — the one I loved and treasured, my friend and partner. 

But there was, and is, a pervasive, bloodless, overpowering _relief_ at the news, as well — a deliverance equal parts sweet and terrible, a sense that an enormous, permeating threat has at last been dispelled, that I’m finally safe after an endless hell of unparalleled danger. Awakening from lurid, visceral night terrors, ones that have me screaming into the shadows of the bedroom at the manor and often bring Bruce or Alfred to my side, I can lie back down and sleep again, knowing that what threatened me has gone with the dreamscape, that the nightmare is just that — nothing more than a bad dream. If Jason hadn’t pulled the trigger, would I be so able to drift off after these horrors, lulled into quiet by Alfred’s hand or Bruce’s smoothing my sweat-dampened hair? 

I just don’t know. 

Even then, this nightmare hasn’t been limited to sleep — and it hasn’t been without waking casualties, either. From the gangsters that washed up in the estuary, to Redhorn, to Blockbuster’s ill-fated trafficker, to all the victims in the fire and the apartment building, to Desmond, and finally… to Mateo, my friend. To myself. 

I’ll never be the same, I know as I lift a handful of sand, sieve it through my fingers, thinking on the fact that so much of this sand was matted down and turned to mud as I bled into it three months ago. I don’t remember much of that night after the shots themselves, just bits and pieces, snapshots of things. But the matted sand beneath me, dark and clotted with my blood — I recall that clearly enough. 

I didn’t see Catalina’s end. Gannon told me that was probably for the best, and I don’t disagree with him. Even so, I learned what happened later, every word of Jason’s account a kick in the guts as I lay recovering, unable to speak much, hooked to a biPAP and immobilized in the hospital bed at RABE. 

“It was dark,” Jason told me, his voice low, “but I _knew_ what I saw — Dick, she’d shot you. Gannon said he knew it the second we came upon you guys, too — I mean, even with how dark it was, we could _see_ all the blood, and that you were down and not moving, you know? There wasn’t even a fucking _inch_ for doubt. And then that bitch stood up and pulled her gun on Gan…” He heaved a sigh, fidgeted, bounced his knees. I could tell he was itching for a cigarette. “I knew what she was capable of. And I had no idea if you were even kicking at that point — no way in hell was I gonna let her kill Gannon, too.” 

And so, when Gannon bellowed at Catalina to drop her weapon and step away and she made no move to acquiesce to either order, Jason fired his own gun. He killed her with a single shot to the head. 

Gannon later told me that for as dumbfounded as he was — he hadn’t even known Jason was packing — there was no time to immediately respond to what Jason did. “You were… kind of _dying_ on the beach, there, Dickie — I mean, I thought that might be somewhat important? Like… _maybe_ it required my immediate attention?” he said with a sigh, feebly attempting to maintain his familiar humorous front, a move that didn’t erase the awful flash memories of him crying over me on the beach. "And by the way..." Gan went on, "you scared the absolute hell out of me yet again on that note, partner." 

I squeezed his hand, wishing I could do more to comfort him, to let him know I was sorry. For his part, Gan scooted over from his chair to the edge of the hospital bed, and leaned down to hug me, his arms gripping my shoulders in a shaking grip.

"You've got to stop doing this," Gannon said after a time, drawing away, still sitting on the bed. "I know I've said before that I'm pretty fond of you, but... Dickie, you're my best pal, you know that? And maybe I shouldn't say it, but... well, screw it, I'm going to. I love you, man."

I smiled at him. "Love you, too, partner. And... I'll try to keep the whole almost dying thing to a minimum from here out. Scout's honor."

Gannon smiled, then the expression faded as he continued to explain, telling me that it wasn’t until I was flighted to RABE and things entered an interval of comparative calm that he approached Jason to talk about what happened. 

My brother’s secret night life came to the fore as they talked while I was in surgery, and the discussion — one that Gannon approached as a concerned partner, worried about Jason’s headspace after killing someone, even if it was in perfectly justified self-defense, and one that Jason mistook as a confrontation — morphed swiftly into an argument, escalating from there into a full-on brawl, both of them at last snapping under the strain and ventilating outward. That explained the remnants of a split lip and the bruising on Gannon’s cheek that I’d noticed when he came in. 

(Gan then mentioned offhand that once the brawl dispersed, he and Jason ended up hugging it out and crying and then having sex. And with the way he approached and told that part of things, it was so unexpected and just seemed so absurd, like something out of a godawful, cliché romance flick, that we both ended up laughing — hard, and a _lot_ — in spite of my injuries and the sad, morbid nature of the situation.) 

“I don’t know which way’s healthier — or unhealthier — to deal with having a lot of feelings,” Gan said, scrubbing at a watering eye, still laughing. “Guess we were going for trial and error?” 

When we calmed down, I asked, stunted by the biPAP, what was going on with them, weighted under all I’d just heard in spite of the moment of mirth. 

“Well… we’re in a bit of a reeval period, I guess,” Gannon sighed. “I just don’t know if I can turn a blind eye to or ignore what he gets up to every night in Gotham — I mean, I’m a goddamn _cop,_ and he’s…” He broke off, and clenched his jaw. “It feels like… like a therapist dating a patient, or a DEA agent getting busy with a cartel, I guess? It’s a _conflict.”_

“Well, I feel that one,” I told him, unsuccessfully fighting the intrusive influx of air from the biPAP machine. “I just — told Jason that — I’ll ignore the elephant — in the room as long as — he keeps it in Gotham — and out of my city.” I rested a moment, and then continued. “Seems to be a — peaceable agreement — so far.” 

Gan just nodded, and again, sighed. I could see the whole thing ate at him like a determined, hungry rat, the effects plain to see all over his exhausted, injured face. The night on the beach, and the events that followed, hadn’t been easy on him. Gannon ended up taking some personal time afterward, planting himself on his couch with Netflix and video games and books — a sort of emotionally convalescent staycation. I hurt for him, seeing him like that, feeling a hundred percent responsible. 

This turning point in their relationship was inevitable, I knew, and I suffered a tremendous pang of guilt — I should have _really considered_ the long-term ramifications before playing Emma and meddling in their lives the way I did. There’s a _reason_ they say real-life shipping isn’t cool, even if I just wanted to see both of them loved and happy, each deserving the best the world had to offer, and taking a certain amount of pride in fixing them up in what proved to be a partnership that gave them both a lasting and euphoric joy. 

Bringing this up to Jason, acknowledging and apologizing for it, he snorted. 

“Yeah, I’m not an idiot, Dickiebird,” he said, waving a hand. “I’m pretty sure you were also kind of hoping he’d be like, a good influence on me or some shit. You’re just lucky Gan’s a good dude.” 

At first I went to protest (and okay, probably because there _might_ have been a teeny-tiny grain of truth in that accusation), but then I saw that Jason was wearing one of his lopsided half-smiles. I settled a bit, and just let Jason talk. 

He went on to explicate that of course Gannon was a force for good in his life, probably the best, in fact, but he couldn’t just retire the Red Hood — _I mean, Jesus Christ, Dickhead, don’t be so naive —_ and this same positive influence actually put Jason in a really difficult spot. 

“Look, we’re not having this conversation today,” Jason told me flatly, “considering you’re breathing only by the grace of that machine you’re hooked up to and you’ve kind of had a shit run of luck lately, meaning I acknowledge you’re fragile and kinda ‘handle with care’ at the moment —” 

“My hero,” I said lightly, joking, but meaning it, too. 

“Yep, always the Robin of Loxley to your Lady Marian, Dickie, that’s me,” he said. “But the thing is, man… it was one thing to go on a date — like, _a_ date, one, singular — with a guy I knew was cute and nice and had a reasonable IQ, and kinda do it as a favor to you… because you and I both know you wouldn’t have dropped it if I didn’t agree.” He gave me a warm, genuine smile when I chuckled and nodded. “And yeah, okay, I knew it was important to you, so…” He shrugged. “Anyway. It was another thing to actually start _caring_ about the guy, and wanting to do _right_ by him, and realizing… that… I kinda _sucked_ at doing right by him. I mean, every night I headed out to work, I did exactly _wrong_ by him, dude, you know? But… I couldn’t back out of either thing — I mean, there’s too much at stake for me to just dump everything where work’s concerned, and I didn’t _want_ to give up Gannon. Or risk him, either.” He sighed. “When I headed out on the job, I felt like I cheated on Gannon. When I went out with Gannon, a fucking _cop,_ I felt like I cheated on the job.” He shook his head. “It sucked. It _still_ sucks. And… I can’t really say I have any idea what’s gonna happen from here.” 

“I hope you — can figure something out,” I murmured to him. 

He nodded. “Me, too. By the way, Dickhead… before you try babbling through that breathing machine, you can spare yourself the effort, ’cause I know what you’re thinking. You know, about this whole thing. But you don’t need to say sorry or whatever, okay? Messy as this thing with Gan has gotten, it’s still been one of the best things ever to happen to me. Probably a good thing I’m _used_ to messy, I guess.” He reached over, and squeezed my hand. “God, that all sounds cheesy as hell. Anyway… I probably oughtta thank you.” 

Well. I guess at least _that_ one didn’t turn out as poorly as it might have. They’ve still not really figured everything out, but they’ve remained something of a package deal, and continue to get along like a syrupy new couple in love — a positive sign. I just hope they can get it nailed down someday, and that they’ll be happy when they do. 

It’s strange, thinking on my own relationship with Barbara, and where we are now. In some ways, she and I are in a position not much different from my brother and partner, I think as I chuck my shoes, lifting the bag I’ve brought, and standing to walk into the surf. Our title, like theirs, is also in a sort of limbo, but there’s no denying that we exist under our not-title _together,_ traversing our hinterland side by side, just as they do. Barbara has been steady, nothing shy of my proverbial rock and safety rope as I’ve navigated the tossing waters that Catalina left in the wake of her storm, the storm that still, in a lot of ways, blows around me. 

As I walk through the waves, feeling the chill of the water around my ankles, the rocky muck beneath my feet, I know that Catalina also threw the line to me that, by all evidence, saved my life. 

It’s hard — no, impossible — to ever reconcile the knowledge that she killed and harmed so many, that she caused so much havoc and pain, that she took so much with her before she finally left this world. I go back to work at the BPD tomorrow, and for as much as I’m ready to get back up on the horse, I know the job will _never_ be the same without Mateo Flores. I’ll feel his absence every time I walk into the DA’s office to drop off my reports, looking for him in his old nook in the back, waiting to see him coming around the corner with his customary swift gait, smartly styled hair, and the power ties I always teased him for. I’ll feel it every time I need an afternoon pick-me-up to beat the 3pm slump and hit up the coffee shop he preferred, the one I commonly picked up his favored “liquid heart attack” for him from. Some accused me of currying favor with the formidable El Diablo when I stopped by his office with coffee alongside the reports I’d written up, but I didn’t care. Mat was my friend. 

He’ll be missed. I miss him now. And I always will. 

But in a way… I miss _her,_ too. Catalina. The same person who took Mateo, and so much more besides, from me — the same person who is, by some outlandish contradiction, the reason I’m still alive today. 

I’ll never forget Bruce’s words to me as he stood by my bed in the manor, not long after I was released from the hospital, his unusual nighttime presence in my room a response to one of my noisy bad dreams. Cracks of emotion splintered the veneer of placidity that precariously hovered over his schooled features as he spoke, and although he never lost his composure, I thought for a moment that he very well might. 

“Well, you’re aware of what happened — that Catalina shot you,” he said, gazing at me with his measured expression, millions of unspoken thoughts and feelings darting about beneath the surfaces of his eyes like startled rabbits. “Are you aware that Catalina then called 911, alerting EMS to your situation, barely moments after the first shot was fired?” 

I shook my head, frowning. 

“Barbara never mentioned that to you?” 

Again, I shook my head. 

“Well. She did,” Bruce told me. “And Barbara confirmed it. If Catalina hadn’t made that call… it’s very likely you wouldn’t be lying in this bed talking to me right now, Dick.” 

I just stared at him, letting this sink in. 

“Skagle said that even one minute more and you might have been _well_ past saving,” Bruce continued, then paused, looking off into the corner of the room by the window, his face grim and hard-set. “Catalina… very likely saved your life.” He paused, and inhaled, returning his gaze to me. “I can’t say for certain what was going through her mind in those final moments, Dick. But… if I had to guess, I feel reality may have finally hit her when she saw you like that, and I think it hit her _hard._ Then… I believe she had a change of heart — and she chose to save you. Barbara overheard the whole thing through the phone, and… I’ll just say that she agrees.” 

There was silence as I thought, my gut rolling uncomfortably, stirred by an unseen paddle. 

Barbara had said, just before I left the hospital, that she had so much more to tell me regarding Catalina, some of it good, most of it extremely bad. However, Babs also stressed that she wanted me to recover a fair deal more before even considering bringing any of it up, and even more so, that she wanted _me_ to be the one to decide if I wanted to hear any of it at all. 

I squeezed a handful of the comforter that lay in a sweat-sodden pile across my lap. This had to be a part of it, what Barbara had to tell me. I closed my eyes, the ducts burning, my lashes damp against my cheeks. 

“Does Jason know she called 911?” I asked eventually, opening my eyes. 

Bruce shook his head. “It might be better not to tell him, Dick.” 

“For once,” I murmured, “I think I agree.” 

Bruce reached over, and laid a palm on my forehead, as though checking for a fever. Then, as though satisfied, he nodded. 

“Get some rest,” he told me, and surprised me when he kissed my forehead. “Don’t hesitate to call one of us if you need anything. Tim’s just down the hall, and you know he never sleeps at this hour.” 

I watched Bruce leave, and then, in the resounding silence that his absence left in my room, I found I didn’t want to be alone with all the new, terrible thoughts that clamored in my mind. And I did call Tim into my room. 

He responded immediately, not hesitating the slightest bit, dropping what he was working on as though it was going out of style and showing up in an instant like a slim, dark-haired angel. With his quiet, even presence beside me, his hand grasping mine, I ended up crying myself to sleep, my heart ripped to pieces all over again. Tim sat up by me the whole night, not once moving, and not sleeping. 

When I woke up in the morning, Tim was the first to tell me it was okay to feel sorrow over what happened to Catalina, even if she hadn’t made the call to 911. 

“I mean… I think it’s natural to feel that way, regardless of what she did in the end,” he said. “She didn’t start out as your enemy. She was your friend — and _more_ than that. Of course you’re going to be sad that she’s gone.” He paused, looking equal parts utterly fried and wise in the gray morning light that streamed through the window. “And it’s always sad when someone you know dies — it doesn’t matter who they were, or whether you were close to them or not. So… even though Catalina really did some terrible things, she was still a person you cared about and were close to at one point. I think it would actually be stranger if you _weren’t_ sad.” 

I smiled wanly over at him as I got out of bed, suddenly determined to locate a cup of coffee. “Well, those are some wise words, Timmy. We should change your superhero name to Captain Yoda or something.” 

He chuckled, and stood. “Yeah. You think those are wise words — just wait until I’m caffeinated.” 

“My brain can’t handle wisdom of that magnitude,” I told him, the first joke I’d made in… God, I couldn’t even remember when. Later, I decided I felt well enough to invite friends over for a group visit, another first in who knew how long. 

Standing on an outcropping of rock overlooking the water now, remembering those conversations with Bruce and Tim, I reach into the bag I carry. In it are two photos, one of Catalina, one of Mateo, and the copy of _Rebecca_ and pendant I got for Cat when we looked through the stands at the Christmas markets. All of them are lodged inside Mat’s favorite coffee mug that his secretary, Anita, let me have. 

I sit down on the rock. Methodically, I take each item from inside the mug, thinking on their owners and saying a few words to them as I hold their possessions, and then I toss the things they touched into the water with little _plunks._ Releasing them. Letting them go. Saying goodbye. Seeking resolution, closure, peace — anything but this endless heartache with no horizon. 

The last thing I hold is Catalina’s photograph. A long, long series of moments passes, the wind whispering to me, caressing my hair, stroking my skin. The familiar discordant mix of emotion wells in me, the jarring of sorrow and relief, grief and vindication. I think of her, that beautiful, perilous nightshade flower, gazing at her innocent, unassuming, smiling face clasped in the palm of my hand. As I inhale, I recall her as she was when she was my _friend_ — encouraging, warm, compassionate, bright. 

As I exhale, I let go of the evils that surround her memory like a dark, billowing shroud, releasing her as she was when she was my _enemy_ — toxic, despotic, deceptive, dangerous. 

Not forgiving. Not forgetting. 

Just _letting go._

I _have_ to let go. I have to _live_ — for Barbara, for my family and friends, for myself. And for Catalina’s final choice — her decision to save my life rather than take it. 

I look out at the canting sun that leans into the ocean. 

_Atropa belladonna. A plant that can cure, seduce, or kill._

I hold the photo out over the water. 

“ _Adios, mi princesa,”_ I murmur, my voice hoarse and quiet. “And… thank you. For choosing to save me the last time we were here.” 

With that, I drop the photo, watching it as it flutters down in little back and forth motions into the water below, where it eventually fades and vanishes into the violet depths. I stand in silence for a while, just feeling the breath as it enters my body, sensing my heart as it beats in my chest, experiencing the rigor in my muscles as they rest, full of potential energy. I integrate the feeling of the wind, the balmy summer air, the dampness of the water below. 

Inhale — 

_I am alive —_

Exhale — 

_I am alive._

Then, knowing that peace is as yet somewhere a ways off, but finding myself close enough to it for now, I turn, and head away from the beach to rejoin Barbara where she waits for me. 


End file.
